MIM^OD'S 


GALLATIN  SETON 


Nimrocfs  Wife 


GRACE  GALLATIN  SETON 


Author  of  "  Jl  Woman  Tenderfoot 


'Pictures  bu 
WALTER  KING  STONE 

and 
ERNEST  THOMPSON  SETON 


LONDON 
Archibald,  Constable  &  Company 

1907 


PRINTED  IN  NEW  YORK,  U.   S.  A. 

ALT    RIGHTS  RESERVED,    INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
INT©  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,   INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


S+7 


TO  ONE 

Who,  without  strength,  maizes  slaves  of  the  strong; 
Who,  loving  none,  is  loved  by  all — 

THE  BABY 


NOTE  TO  THE   READER 

The  events  herein  recorded  really 
happened,  although  some  latitude 
has  been  taken  as  to  time  and  place ; 
and  one  experience  may  seem  to  fol- 
low fast  upon  another,  because,  nec- 
essarily, the  best  of  all  has  been 
omitted — the  glorious  succession  of 
eventless  days  when  one  was  content 
to  be  alive  and  carefree. 

G.  G.  S. 

Cos  Cob,  Conn.,  1907 


CONTENTS 

PART   I— IN    THE  SIERRA 

PAGE 

i        'The    Inn    of    the    Silver 

Moon"  .          .          -15 

ii  Real  Dangers  of  the  Open 
Versus  Popular  Notion. 
Undine's  Story  .  .  33 

PART    II— IN   THE   ROCKIES 

in    The     Grand    Canon     and 

What  it  Did  to  Nimrod  55 
iv  A  Discursion  on  the  Bron- 
cho 81 
v  On  the  March  .  .  93 
vi  A  Fire  Ride  .  .  .  115 
vii  Bear  and  Forbear  .  125 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

vni  What  I  Know  About 
Mountain  Goats — Bob- 
bie's Story  .  .  -145 

ix  A  Jack  Rabbit  Dance  and 

the  Fantail  Ghost  .  167 

x  A  Sinew  of  the  Law  Dis- 
played .  .  •  195 

xi     On    the   Rosebud — Plenty 

Coups's  Peace-pipe         .  213 

xn  At  the  Feast  of  the  Dog 
Dance— The  Way  of 
Arabella  Horsetail  .  229 

PART  III-ON  THE   OTTAWA 

xin  Te-vis-ca-bing  .          .          .271 
xiv  A   Canuck's  Trick         .       287 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

xv  Concerning  a  New  Ac- 
quaintance—The Mus- 
calonge  .  •  311 

xvi  Several  Things  About 

Moose  -  321 

xvii  "Jest  Travellin"  In  Wa- 
ter Country —Creche' s 
Ultimatum.  •  345 

xvin  One  Moose  in  Particular  367 

PART  IV— IN    NORWAY 

xix  The  New  Hunting  of 
Reindeer— When  I  Ate 
the  Cake  and  Had 
It  Too  •  •  391 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


21 


A  bath  tub  for  Suzanne  to  envy 

He  approached  threatening,  his 
face  evil  as  boiling  pitch  .  45 

The  road  led  through  the  fra- 
grant deep-shadowed  pines  .  71 

The  ride  was  becoming  unpleas- 
urably  full  of  incident  .  107 

I  lowered  the  gun  and  let  him  go  141 

That  ungrateful  billy  straight- 
way made  a  vicious  charge  at 
his  benefactor  .  .  .  151 

A  tawny  shadow  close  against 
the  red  earth  .  .  -171 

Hippity  hop,  around  and 
around  .  .  .  .179 

One  actually  sat  on  top  of 
the  camera  .  .  .  -183 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Whiteswan.  A  portrait  by  him- 
self .  .  .  .  -215 

Plenty  Coups' s  ledger      .         .219 

Two  squaws  scolding  their  hus- 
bands, who  have  been  out  all 
night  .  .  .  .223 

Each  in  a  canoe  with  a  guide 
to  paddle.  .  .  .  279 

We  baled  and  baled  with  our 
foolish  utensils  .  .  -297 

We  all  sat  like  graven  images  361 

Across  the  tiny  lake  loomed  a 
magnificent  animal  .  .  371 

She  looked  at  the  fallen  mon- 
arch and  sniffed  in  alarm  .  383 

A  reindeer  drawing  room       .       403 


PART   I. 

IN    THE    SIERRA 


I. 


THE     INN     OF    THE     SILVER    MOON " 

ERE  you  ever  in  the 
open  air  through  all  the 
rounded  day  with  not 
so  much  as  a  strip  of 
canvas  between  you 
and  the  great  space 
above?  Have  you  ever  watched  that 
space  put  forth  its  round  of  blue— 
from  palest  grey  at  early  morn — chill 
as  Ophelia's  brook-kissed  tresses,  to 
warmer — as  the  dove  is  grey,  like 
the  passion  of  anaemic  youth,  to 
steel — glittering  as  the  mercenary 
eye,  to  drab — a  brooding  menace, 
to  slate — even  as  Othello's  sombre 


mien  —  a     certainty 
storm? 

Or,  have  you  ever  watched  its 
gayer  nature  from  that  same  chill 
tone  at  dawn  peep  forth,  little  spots 
of  blue,  like  childish  laughter  dis- 
pelling sterner  mood,  until  the  whole 
wide  dome  is  smiling — the  blue  of 
the  asteria;  warmer  yet  as  the  sun 
mounts — to  turquoise,  and  at  last 
the  true  cerulean,  shimmering,  blaz- 
ing in  all  the  ripe  completed  beauty 
of  a  June  garden?  Then  have  you, 
as  the  hours  circled,  watched  this 
full-blooded  light  yield  its  radiance 
to  the  spirit  of  evening,  gently  drift- 
ing to  the  blue  of  the  ancients,  lapis 
lazuli — deeper,  deeper  yet,  until  the 
whole  wonderful  mantle  is  spread 
over  you,  a  great  dark-hearted  sap- 
phire ?  Then,  indeed  you  have  found 
something  good. 

I  am  not  asking  you,  the  veteran, 
scarred  with  wounds  and  memories, 
nor  you,  the  free-spirited  moun- 
taineer or  plainsman;  but  you 
house-ridden  dwellers  in  the  cities, 
soul-sick  ones,  in  church,  in  drawing- 
room,  in  office,  or  sweat-shop.  Throw 
off  your  fetters  for  awhile,  your 


prejudice,  your  narrow-mindedness, 
all  the  petty  things  that  make  your 
daily  trappings  anrl  take  a  sun- 
bath  with  me,  give  your  starved 
soul  a  chance — the  road  to  the 
outdoors  is  open  to  all.  And  as 
Providence  is  apparently  over-busy 
administering  to  every  feeble  soul 
the  necessary,  properly-mixed  tonic 
of  self-sacrifice  and  recompense, 
come  with  me  back  to  the  woods, 
pry  open  your  blind  eyes  and  grow 
as  the  flowers  grow. 


STRONG  breeze  was  stirring 
the  tree-tops,  the  shining  blue- 

eyed  water   of   Lake   Tahoe 

danced  happily  in  its  mountain 
home.  The  largest,  fattest  trout 
found  shelter  there,  lucky  the  human 
who  could  float  and  dive  with  them. 
He  might  feel  he  was  descended 
from  the  mer-folk,  the  sea  his  natural 
habitat,  so  buoyant  is  it,  so  deep, 
so  bracing,  so  everything  a  water 
should  be. 

At  least  Nimrod  said  it  was  all 
these  things,  said  it  at  great  length 
as  he  stood,  fully  dressed,  with  no 


suspicious  dampness  to  be  discerned 
upon  his  locks,  and  flung  chips  to 
Undine,  who  rejoiced  audibly  while 
bringing  them  to  shore.  Undine 
was  a  black  mongrel,  a  drifter  in  the 
high  country,  like  ourselves.  She 
had  served  many  masters,  cattle- 
men, even  sheepmen,  but  the  only 
law  she  permanently  obeyed  was 
that  of  the  wild.  She  had  attached 
herself  to  our  cavalcade  under  cir- 
cumstances unexpected  as  they  were 
praiseworthy.  But  first  it  seems 
best  to  record  that  my  "Yes" 
accompanied  as  it  was  by  a  variety 
of  exclamation  and  interrogation 
points,  caused  Nimrod  to  say  with 
a  trace  of  haste  in  his  manner: 

"Look  at  Silverton  - 

And  I  did  look  at  Silverton  playing 
tag  in  the  water  with  Undine,  whose 
tail  must  have  fairly  loosened  at 
the  joints  with  joy. 

Silverton  was  good  to  look  at, 
six  feet  two;  he  was  equally  good 
to  be  with.  He  is  dead  now,  poor 
chap,  so  I  can  say  all  the  nice  things 
about  him  that  occur  to  me.  Lou 
Silverton  was  the  mountain  type  in 
its  highest  expression,  a  big  man 


morally  as  well  as  physically,  her- 
culean strength  at  anybody's  ser- 
vice (I  have  seen  him  break  a  big 
pebble  in  his  hands) ,  his  never-failing 
good  humour,  his  homely  philosophy 
and  woodcraft  lore  made  him  the 
man  of  all  others  to  go  camping  with. 
It  was  largely  his  courage  and  en- 
durance that  had  made  it  possible 
to  bring  Monarch  the  biggest  grizzly 
ever  captured  alive,  to  the  Zoo  at 
Golden  Gate. 

Whether  my  derision  had  urged 
him  on,  or  whether  his  own  remarks 
were  a  precursor  to  his  present 
plan,  I  know  not,  but  Nimrod  disap- 
peared behind  some  bushes  and  soon 
was  splashing  right  merrily.  How 
I  envied  them.  My  prim  inheritance 
forbade  that  a  towel  should  serve  as 
a  bathing  garment.  To  my  undoing, 
memory  now  presented  a  picture 
printed  there  only  the  day  before 
when  on  the  march;  a  jolly  cascade 
of  purest  mountain  vintage  had 
scooped  out  in  its  eager  course  a 
granite  slab,  great  boulders  were 
piled  about  it.  Here  was  a  bath-tub 
smooth,  unscarred  by  crack  or  peb- 
ble, a  bath-tub  for  Susanne  to  envy. 


20 


It  was  not  more  than  three  miles. 
Surely  I  could  find  it.  Leaving 
these  brazen  men  with  their  brazen 
dog  to  take  their  shameless  bath, 
wrapped  in  a  cloak  of  modesty  and 
sweet  anticipations,  I  jumped  upon 
the  ever-ready  horse,  and  trying  to 
pretend  that  I  was  accustomed  to 
going  through  these  great  solemn 
woods  alone  I  started  for  the  reality 
of  that  ablutionary  picture.  When 
at  last  it  was  found,  the  sun  had  al- 
ready begun  to  pull  down  his  shades, 
the  pool,  perhaps  eight  feet  across 
and  waist  deep,  looked  black  and 
cold — brrrrh!  very  cold.  No,  de- 
cidedly, Susanne  would  never  have 
risked  her  satin  flesh.  As  I  hesitated 
the  pines  above  sighed  loudly: 

"  We  love  the  pool  so  deep  and  cool, 

It  is  our  child. 

Step  boldly  in,  dare  all  to  win, 
'Twill  then  be  mild." 

After  that,  the  only  polite  thing 
to  do  was  to  become  acquainted 
in  the  manner  outlined.  Unfortun- 
ately, wet  rock  is  often  like  good 
intentions,  most  slippery.  Not  un- 
aware of  this  I  selected  the  least 


A  BATH  TUB  FOR  SUZANNE  TO  ENVY 


sloping  approach;  a  chilly  wind 
swept  by  and  through  my  Eve's 
costume  most  unpleasantly,  when 
bump,  bang-splash!  I  had  slid  full 
length,  face  downward  into  the 
water. 

O  mournful  deceivers  above — are 
you  the  unwilling  servants  of  the 
monster  my  affrighted  eyes  now 
gazed  upon?  Life  may  hold  worse 
moments,  I  pray  not.  What  fiend 
had  dashed  me  into  that  icy  water 
to  disturb,  in  frantic  struggles  for  the 
life-giving  air,  the  owner  of  this  pool 
—a  water-snake  with  darting  tongue 
in  a  flattened  head.  It  was  not 
courage  but  sheer  fright  that  tight- 
ened my  hold  on  the  rock  rim  near 
his  writhing  tail.  There  seemed  yards 
of  the  squirming  horror;  in  fact  it 
filled  the  universe.  It  seemed  to  be 
enveloping  me  in  swirling  waves,  as 
the  dragon  of  the  pool  gradually 
glided  under  the  rock.  Then  sud- 
denly again  the  pines  sang : 


dare  all  to  win.  " 


I  let  go  and  managed  to  scramble 
out  of  the  water,  a  frozen  rag. 
It  had  been  such  a  delightful  bath! 


Fortunately  Nimrod  had  hunted 
me   up   and   my   courage   being   as 
absent  as  the  chill  was  present,  soon 
supplied  some  of  the  Dutch  variety- 
such  siren  pines,  yet  do  I  love  you. 

Having  revived  the  perishing, 
Nimrod,  after  the  manner  of  husbands, 
proceeded  to  investigate.  How  long 
was  the  snake,  how  marked,  what 
sha'ped  head? 

"Humph!  Pituophis  catenifer,  a 
harmless  Bull-snake!  Doubtless  more 
scared  than  you."  -Could  you  have 
forgiven  him?  Later  Silverton's  phil- 
osophy smoothed  my  ruffled  feelings. 

1 '  Why  do  you  suppose  I  am  such  a 
coward  ?  Surely  you  have  never  been 
afraid  in  your  life,  have  you?" 

'Yes,"  a  courteous  lie,  "but  being 
afraid  does  not  mean  a  coward. 
That's  imagination.  You  see,  I 
haven't  much.  It's  what  one  does 
that  counts.  A  fellar's  feelings  are 
his  own  job.  I'll  bet  you've  got 
more  of  the  real  article  than  I  have. 
You  get  in  a  tight  place,  you  hate  it, 
but  get  out.  Now  I  get  in  a  tight 
place — I  just  get  out — no  frills — no 
credit." 

He  took  off  his  sombrero,  a  huge 


affair  with  a  plain  leather  band  on  the 
crown,  and  held  it  beside  mine.  It 
was  like  his  but  much  smaller  and  the 
wide  leather  band  was  beautifully 
carved,  a  Mexican  silver  buckle 
held  it. 

1 '  That's  the  difference— frills.  It's 
just  as  useful." 

We  had  been  out  in  the  Sierra 
for  two  weeks.  There  was  one  more 
of  us,  the  cook.  There  ought  to  have 
been  three  more  of  us,  for  Sally  and 
her  husband  were  coming,  but  one  of 
the  children  got  the  measles.  Unless 
some  other  germs  triumph,  they  will 
join  us  next  month  in  Idaho.  Sally's 
real  name  is  Gulielma.  She  could 
not  help  it.  There  has  always  been 
one  in  the  family.  Her  grandmother's 
name  was  Gulielma  Mary  Ann  Sprig- 
ett  Penn  Wells  Dean,  so  she  got  off 
with  G.  D.  Rockingham,  and  now 
she  is — you  know — Tevis.  So  Bobby 
Tevis  calls  her  "Pet,"  or  "Petty," 
and  I  call  her  Sally.  She  does  not 
care.  She  is  hardened,  she  even 
looks  with  sweet  unflinching  eyes 
when  her  old-fashioned  mother,  going 
back  to  first  principles,  says,  "Gu-li- 
el-ma!" 


I  have  never  camped  with  a  wo- 
man, but  Bobbie  Tevis  has  felt  the 
call  of  the  Red  Gods  and  Sally  has 
to  come.  She  is  very  wise  in  the 
matter  of  husband  keeping,  is  Sally. 
I  have  never  seen  her  equal.  Bobbie 
does  everything  for  her,  and  adores 
her,  and  is  not  happy  unless  she  is 
enjoying  with  him  the  same  thing  at 
the  same  moment.  She  has  practi- 
cally made  herself  over,  perhaps  a 
trifle  strenuous  for  most,  but  it  is 
beautiful  to  behold. 

As  for  the  cook,  he  was  just  an 
Ordinary  Man  who  owned  four  horses 
and  a  wagon  and  some  saddle  horses, 
lived  in  Goldville,  the  place  we 
wanted  to  start  from — and  could 
bake  bread. 

But  to  begin  at  the  beginning : 
We  left  Sacramento,  a  light  hearted 
trio,  on  the  "mixed."  At  last  we 
were  started  after  much  buying  of 
provisions  and  camp  necessaries. 
Perhaps  you  have  never  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  a  '  'mixed  "  ?  This  one 
had  a  moribund  day  coach  very  much 
frayed  and  moth-eaten  in  the  matter 
of  velvet  seats,  and  very  feeble  in 
the  springs;  we  seemed  to  be  riding 


chiefly  on  the  trucks.  Being  the  one 
daily  train  we  had  a  caboose  behind, 
and  the  rest  of  us  was  freight.  With 
frequent  stops  for  breath  or  water, 
the  engine  puffed,  puffed  up  hill  at 
least  ten  miles  an  hour.  But  no 
matter,  for  the  iron  horse  toiled 
through  a  vast  orchard  and  when  it 
gave  a  long  wheezing  hiss  and  put  on 
brakes  to  rest,  merrily  Silverton 
jumped  off  and  foraged  for  the  ripest 
figs  and  Nimrod  for  the  rosiest 
peaches,  until  gorged  with  the  best 
of  California's  cornucopia,  we  were 
glad  to  leave  the  fruit  belt,  puffing, 
blowing  and  bumping  our  way  to- 
ward the  Sierra,  calm  "sentinels  of 
the  sky."  Once  among  them  the 
engine  banked  its  fires  and  expired. 
We  were  at  the  terminal,  Goldville. 

Nowhere  is  the  air  so  clear,  the  sun 
so  grateful,  as  in  the  mountains,  but 
likewise  never  do  the  clouds  seem 
so  black  nor  human  passions,  stripped 
of  some  of  their  civilised  trappings, 
show  themselves  more  flagrantly. 
I  am  thinking  of  what  happened 
during  the  two  hours  spent  at  Gold- 
ville. Nimrod  and  Silverton  were 
busy  with  the  Ordinary  Man  getting 


ready  for  the  start  that  very  after- 
noon into  the  mountains — we  were 
to  have  no  more  roofs  for  a  glorious 
while. 

Being  unoccupied,  I  drifted  down 
the  main  street  and  into  a  little  park 
surrounding  the  Court  House.  Sev- 
eral children  and  dogs  were  playing; 
on  the  benches  were  a  few  loafers 
and  some  women  from  the  country 
with  baskets — a  long  line  beyond  of 
dusty  vehicles  with  horses  hitched 
testified  that  it  was  market  day. 
Selecting  a  vacant  and  shaded  bench 
I  sat  thereon  and  extracting  a  tiny 
volume  of  verse  from  the  crown  of 
my  hat  began  to  read — I  have  no 
idea  how  long. 

" Fair  lilies,  roses  red, 

That  once  above  my  head 
Waved  in  a  wealth  of  soft  caressing  splen- 
dour   " 

"Miss,  did  you  ever  see  a  dead 
man?"  Shot  into  my  ear  like  an 
arrow.  Someone  had  whispered  it 
sibilantly.  My  slow  astonished  gaze, 
thus  torn  from  the  contemplation  of 
youth,  love  and  beauty,  saw  beside 
me  a  small  woman  in  shabby  black, 


her  eyes  straight  ahead,  looking  at 
something  within,  her  hands  clasped 
tightly  in  her  lap.  How  had  she 
got  there? 

"He's  dead.  I  never  saw  one. 
He's  there  now." 

She  shot  a  sidelong  glance  at  me 

"Where?" 

"Over  there,"  giving  her  right 
shoulder  a  hitch  in  the  direction  of 
Main  Street. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  him?" 
She  questioned  in  the  same  sup- 
pressed tone.  Most  assuredly  I  would 
not,  but  before  I  could  say  so  she 
went  on. 

'They  took  him  there  this  morn- 
ing. He  shot  hisself  yesterday.  He 
lived  next  ranch — and  I — want  to 
see  him.  I  can't  go  alone.  Been 

trying  to .  Now  will  you  come  ? ' ' 

She  had  risen  and  for  a  moment  an 
eager  look  chased  away  the  strained 
one. 

"Why  did  he "  She  inter^ 

rupted  me. 

"He's  a  widower.  She's  gone 
about  a  year.  His  step-daughter 
kept  house  for  him,  and  folks  say — 
well  she's  come  to  no  good  end,  and 


he's  shot  hisself  because  folks  said— 
but  he  and  I — we—     Ain't  you  corn- 
in'  ?    The  old  Man  '11  be  startin'  back 
soon."     She  glanced  at  the  long  line 
of  market  wagons  beyond  the  square. 

"Comin'l" 

"Very  well." 

I  had  much  to  do  to  keep  pace 
with  her.  Once  having  gotten  me, 
her  moral  force,  started,  she  trav- 
elled swiftly  out  of  the  park,  down 
Main  Street,  turned  at  the  third 
block  and  halted  abruptly  in  front 
of  "there,"  which  proved  to  be  an 
1 '  Undertaking  Parlour. ' ' 

"I  dare  n't — see  him."  It  was  a 
plea  for  reinforcement. 

"Come!" 

Once  inside,  she  spoke  to  a  man 
who  appeared  from  the  rear  in  his 
shirtsleeves. 

"  I — we  want  to  see  him.11 

This  speech  appeared  sufficiently 
normal  to  the  gentleman  of  the 
undertaking. 

"Come  right  back  here,"  he  said 
in  a  cheerful  business-like  tone"  the 
coffin  is  most  done,  we're  just  engrav- 
ing the  plate.  He  spelt  his  name 
with  two  1's,  I  presume?" 


The  woman  nodded.  I  essayed  to 
wait  for  her,  a  grip  on  my  sleeve 
showed  that  she  still  needed  the 
human  touch  of  sympathy.  To- 
gether we  followed  to  the  workshop 
where  loudly  a  hammer  proclaimed 
a  wooden  case  being  put  together,  and 
somewhat  apart,  on  a  rough  bier, 
under  a  sheet,  lay  the  figure  of ' '  him ' ' 
who  had  not  "made good, "  as  Silver- 
ton  would  put  it.  In  a  little  house 
ten  miles  away  a  girl  was  cursing 
him,  and  the  neighbours  were  help- 
ing. Here  in  the  crude  noisy  shop 
was  his  one  mourner — the  other 
woman. 

Dry-eyed  she  looked  at  him,  bullet 
mark  and  all,  looked  long  and  looked 
again,  then  the  vision  held  before  her 
she  sought  the  street  and  turned 
toward  the  market  place  and  the 
"old  Man." 

She  dropped  me  as  one  drops  a 
shoe,  she  neither  knew  nor  cared; 
and  I  scuttled  back  to  Nimrod  and 
pleasant  things. 

We  slept  that  night  on  a  straw- 
stack  in  the  Ordinary  Man's  ranch, 
a  few  miles  out  of  Goldville.  Of 
course,  being  an  Ordinary  Man  he 


had  forgotten  something  important, 
so  we  could  get  no  farther.  The 
overdome  was  violet  black  that  night 
with  a  delicate  all-over  embroidery 
of  silver.  For  a  long  time  I  lay  looking 
at  it,  the  straw  slowly  settling  under 
my  weight,  making  a  cosy  nest, 
amply  protected  from  the  crisp  night 
air.  I  was  floating  in  the  sweet 
upper  silence  when  a  something  set 
it  all  athrill,  a  long  drawn  melodious 
quavering  weooooooo — followed  by  a 
few  short,  sharp  shocks  of  sound,  and 
then  a  chorus  of  rolling  quavers, 
swelling  and  fading — wwwooooo 
woooowoo. 

It  did  not  really  wake  me.  I 
knew  it  so  well — the  evening  song 
of  the  coyotes.  They  were  singing 
the  song  of  the  hills,  and  feeling  that 
now  indeed  was  I  truly  in  the  open, 
my  lodging  at  "The  Inn  of  the 
Silver  Moon"  lost  reality  and  the 
silver  wrought  bowl  slipped  farther 
and  farther  away. 


II. 


REAL  DANGERS  OF  THE  OPEN  VERSUS 
POPULAR  NOTION — UNDINE'S  STORY 

S  already  said,  Undine 
had  vagrantly  answered 
to  the  will  of  many,  and 
permanently  to  her  own. 
During  her  nomadic  ca- 
reer she  had  picked  up 
several  trades,  such  as  cattle-  and 
sheep-keeping,  and  at  least  three  ac- 
complishments, swimming,  barking 
like  a  wolf,  and  deer-running,  the 
last  often  much  appreciated  by  the 
bacon-fed  herder  with  whom  she  had 
consented  awhile  to  tarry,  taking  his 
orders,  doing  his  work  and  sharing 
his  food  and  fire.  Undine  hated  salt 


34 


pork  and  "camp  sinkers,"  so  if  possi- 
ble she  provided  her  own  susten- 
ance— any  unlucky  field  mouse  or 
chipmunk  not  agile  enough  to  escape 
her  spring. 

Sheep  had  always  been  associated 
in  my  mind  with  great  green  stretches 
of  rolling  park  land  whereon  a 
handful  of  these  well-kept  woolly 
things  fed  picturesquely,  yielding  at 
uncertain  times  and  in  obscure  ways, 
white  fleece;  so  I  had  small  sym- 
pathy with  the  prejudice  in  the  West, 
encountered  universally,  against 
' '  sheepmen. ' '  Why  class  them  among 
the  despised?  And  the  herders  as 
creatures  beyond  the  pale — outcasts  ? 
— Why?  We  must  have  food,  and 
mutton  is  most  delectable. 

We  had  been  travelling  about  a 
week,  each  day  gliding  by  as  event- 
less and  delightful  as  another  until 
I  had  come  to  the  comfortable  be- 
lief that  in  well-regulated  "outfits" 
nothing  did  happen;  when  the  ac- 
cumulated bolts  of  Jove  struck 
among  us  right  busily.  On  a  cer- 
tain well-remembered  day  we  began 
to  pass  through  some  very  extraor- 
dinary country,  unclean,  desolate. 


35 


The  dust  was  incredible.  It  covered 
us  like  the  shower  from  a  volcano. 
Nimrod  was  transformed  into  a  dis- 
gusted looking  Santa  Glaus,  hair, 
mustache,  eyebrows,  even  eyelashes 
had  disappeared  under  a  reddish 
coating.  Over  the  road  (the  Sierra 
are  much  more  man-claimed  than 
the  Rockies,  one  finds  roads  instead 
of  trails)  it  hung  like  a  blanket  ten 
feet  high  of  ever  changing  particles; 
the  horses  ploughed  through  it  eight 
inches  thick  or  more,  blinding,  chok- 
ing, intolerable.  Itwas  the  dryseason, 
but  we  had  seen  nothing  like  this. 

"Why  is  it?"  I  questioned  and 
the  Ordinary  Man  answered — 

"Sheep." 

Silverton  elaborated — "It's  a  pity 
they've  got  hold  of  so  much  of  these 
mountains.  But  suppose  they've 
got  to  go  somewhere.  Gov'ment 
ought  to  regulate  'em,  so  many  to 
the  square  mile,  and  not  let  them 
wipe  out  th'  hull  country.  Isn't 
a  green  thing  left  when  they  get 
through.  Worse'n  a  plague  o'  lo- 
custs. We  're  gettin'  close  to  some 
now." 

I  wondered  how  he  knew,  but  I 


36 

had  given  up  trying  to  fathom  Sil- 
verton's  woodcraft,  perhaps  he  saw 
tracks  or  the  breeze  brought  tidings. 

Yes,  there  was  something  pe- 
culiar on  the  wind,  very  peculiar 
and  very  unpleasant.  Was  it  burn- 
ing rubber?  No,  much  worse.  It 
was  growing  stronger  and  stronger, 
and  the  dust !  Every  one  of  the  mil- 
lion particles  bore  its  unspeak- 
ably malodorous  freight.  Oh!  for 
the  power  that  cleaned  the  Augean 
stables!  The  Ordinary  Man  whipped 
up  his  horses.  I  was  seated  at  the 
time  on  a  big  roll  of  bedding  at  the 
back  of  the  wagon,  leading  my 
horse  by  the  bridle.  The  four  horses 
shot  forward  and  I  had  the  choice  of 
loosening  the  hold  on  my  horse  or 
myself.  A  lost  horse  seemed  prefer- 
able to  a  lost  equilibrium  and  that 
overpowering  dust  and  smell  made 
me  indifferent. 

Nimrod  caught  the  horse  but  I 
declined  to  be  burdened  with  it. 
I  longed  for  a  fragrant  terrace  far 
away  where  clematis,  and  oleanders 
and  day-lilies  scented  the  clear  air. 

"Pretty  nearly  out,"  he  encour- 
aged. 


37 


"Out  of  what?"  I  snapped  gently. 
"Sheep."  I  think  his  expression 
would  have  showed  surprise  if  it 
could  have  penetrated  the  layer  of 
dirt  on  his  visage.  "They  are  some 
distance  off  on  the  right,  must  be 
several  thousands!" 

I  had  not  seen  a  thing.  But  now 
I  heard  voices,  muffled  sounds  and 
bleats.  So  this  particular  brand  of 
smell  and  this  deluge  of  dust  meant 
' '  sheep. ' '  We  were  on  the  necessary 
thoroughfare  for  these  poor  beasts  to 
reach  higher  pasture  lands.  They 
were  making  a  forced  march  in  order 
to  get  food,  for  this  region  had  al- 
ready been  devastated  by  their  pre- 
decessors. The  streams  were  defiled, 
the  vegetation  gone,  nothing  but  dust 
and  ruin. 

Just  then,  a  darting  ball  of  red 
shot  into  the  road,  turned  toward  us 
one  end  from  which  two  gleaming 
eyes  shone,  the  other  end  was  stiff 
for  an  instant  and  then  waggled. 

"Oh,  you  poor  little  doggie,  what 
a  sight  you  are! "  It  gave  two  short 
barks  and  several  hard  waggles  and 
was  off.  "That  is  the  sheep  herders' 
mainstay,"  said  Silverton,  "the  dog 


does  most  of  the  work.  The  herd- 
ers are  a  ornery  lot,  mostly  Mexican 
trash,  no  decent  man  would  take 
such  a  job." 

So  now  I  understood  the  preju- 
dice. At  best  a  herder's  life  repre- 
sents long  weeks  alone,  his  only  and 
constant  company  sheep,  sheep,  silly, 
smelly  sheep.  At  last  we  left  them 
behind  and  the  air  became  humanly 
possible  again.  Being  still  in  sheep 
country  we  were  obliged  to  make 
camp  where  we  could  find  water  fit 
to  drink. 

A  little  spring  in  the  enclosure  of 
a  deserted  ranch  (owner  driven  out 
by  the  sheep)  had  escaped  pollution. 
It  was  sweet  by  its  means  to  recover 
a  normal  appearance,  and  the  little 
emerald  patch  was  as  welcome  to  us 
as  the  oasis  to  a  desert  traveller. 

The  Ordinary  Man  was  preparing 
supper  when  ,  a  small  red  object 
crawled,  rather  than  walked,  toward 
us  from  the  road,  It  lifted  its  nose 
from  the  ground  and  evidently  seeing 
the  object  of  its  tracking,  stretched 
out  on  the  grass,  a  very  tired  dog. 

After  a  time  the  eyes  opened  and 
looked  at  me. 


'You  are  surely  the  sheep-herders' 
dog."  The  animal  gave  itself  a 
shake  as  much  as  to  disclaim  any 
such  connection,  and  with  a  bark  of 
joy  perceived  the  spring  and  jumped 
in.  It  was  gone  a  long  time.  Had 
I  been  mistaken,  was  it  a  suicide? 
when  up  came  a  creature  in  black 
coat,  shining  and  curly,  emitting 
little  yelps  of  pleasure  as  it  paddled 
about.  Then  vigorously  drying  her- 
self Undine  went  to  the  fire  and  sug- 
gested that  food  would  be  most 
appreciated. 

She  ate  starvedly  and  then  fell  to 
licking  a  long  cut  on  the  body.  Per- 
haps it  was  resentment  of  this  that 
had  made  Undine  change  her  allegi- 
ance, for  change  it  she  had,  as  sub- 
sequent events  proved. 

I  have  often  been  struck  by  the 
flimsiness  of  the  threads  from  which 
that  curious  fabric  " popular  notion" 
is  woven.  I  have  never  been  able 
to  examine  it  closely  without  it 
falling  to  pieces  in  my  hands.  Per- 
haps it  is  a  thankless  task  to  destroy 
it:  it  is  the  way  hajf  of  the  world  wins 
its  living  from  the  other  half.  But 
I  am  tempted  to  poke  holes  in  a  tiny 


section  of  it  which  maligns  the  Wild 
Ones.  A  word  should  be  said  for 
them.  I  have  camped  in  a  region 
where  bears  prowled  unceasingly, 
where  the  smaller  fourfoots,  wolves, 
foxes,  lynxes,  knew  very  well  of  my 
presence.  A  mountain  lion  once 
walked  half  way  around  my  bed  as 
I  lay  peacefully  sleeping,  his  nose  not 
a  hand's  breadth  from  mine,  as  the 
great  padded  tracks  next  morning 
amply  testified.  I  had  much  time 
to  study  them,  as  the  very  smell  of 
their  owner  had  stampeded  the 
horses  miles  away.  Hundreds  of 
antelope,  deer,  wapiti,  caribou  I 
have  seen  and  have  never  been  in 
danger  from  them  unless  they  were 
being  molested  and  therefore  on 
the  defensive.  In  short  the  wild 
animals  are  no  longer  a  menace  to 
peaceful  man. 

The  real  dangers  of  the  wilds  that 
have  seriously  threatened  my  life 
were  a  common  bull,  and  a  little 
creature  no  bigger  than  a  thumb- 
nail— a  yellow- jacket  wasp! 

Rarely  if  ever  does  a  dangerous 
wild  animal  in  the  woods  "hit  first," 
and  having  said  this  for  the  wild 


ones,  I  may  add  that  in  spite 
of  these  fine  words,  still  shackled 
by  remnants  of  tradition,  I  am 
always  expecting  them  to,  and 
thereby  prove  myself  a  creature  not 
wholly  open  to  reason. 

However,  if  something  must  in- 
spect camp  at  night,  I  would  far 
rather  take  chances  on  lion  or  bear, 
for  at  least  they  have  a  care  where 
their  feet  are  going,  but  a  bull  would 
as  soon  trample  on  one  as  on  the 
grass  alongside.  He  cares  not  a  jot. 
A  horse  will  carefully  step  over  a 
human  form  but  a  bull  has  not  a 
shred  of  noblesse  oblige.  He  is  a 
blatant,  stupid,  brutal  bully. 

As  for  yellow  jackets,  there  is 
no  creature  more  dreaded  in  horse 
country.  Many  a  poor  pack-horse 
on  the  trail  has  missed  his  footing 
and  gone  to  his  death  because  of 
them.  I  remember  a  certain  "Lost 
Horse  Canon,"  the  entrance  of  which 
they  guarded,  and  where  our  faith- 
ful Midnight,  in  pain  and  fright, 
bucked  himself  off  the  trail,  plunging 
nearly  a  thousand  feet  to  the  torrent 
below,  a  horrible  performance  which 
my  horse  came  perilously  near 


repeating.  We  were  only  saved  by 
my  being  able  to  grasp  an  overhang- 
ing branch,  and  thus  relieved  of 
his  burden  the  horse  scrambled  up  on 
to  the  trail  not  a  second  too  soon. 
Possibly  the  Creator  had  for  long 
been  making  children,  cubs,  puppies 
and  other  young  things  then;  of  a 
sudden  fearing  that  the  world  might 
become  too  sweet  a  place,  balanced 
by  fashioning  the  wasp — all  venom, 
sting  and  temper. 

(This  is  really  the  story  of  Undine, 
but  the  propeller  blade  has  to  be  in 
the  air  some  of  the  time,  you  know.) 

After  supper  the  long  twilight  still 
lingered.  Nimrod,  who  had  been 
sweeping  the  foothills  with  glasses, 
gave  utterance  to  this  cryptic  re- 
mark: 

"I  think  I  see  a  milk  wagon! 
Fresh  milk  for  breakfast,  a  good 
idea!  Come  Silverton,  Cook,  bring 
a  pail,"  and  the  three  rode  away 
toward  a  small  "bunch"  of  range 
cattle  that  had  come  into  view  on 
the  edge  of  the  sheep-ruined  country. 

Undine  and  I  were  getting  ac- 
quainted. She  was  not  a  lap  dog, 
had  evidently  no  conception  of  the 


part,  but  lay  nose  between  paws 
watching  me  as  I  sang,  perhaps  liking 
the  sound  that  the  Poet  had  made 
when  he  strung  the  words  together — • 

'Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave 
Where,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight!  ..." 

The  little  dog  raised  her  nose  and 
sniffed  tentatively,  then  arose  in  an 
attitude  of  attention.  A  horseman 
was  galloping  towards  us.  Undine 
sniffed  again,  gave  a  low  growl,  and 
crawled  out  of  sight  under  a  pile 
of  canvas.  A  dirty  swarthy  little 
man  drew  rein,  almost  pulled  the 
poor  creature  to  its  haunches. 
Flecked  with  foam,  it  stood  trem- 
bling, breathing  heavily. 

''The  Mexican  sheep-herder  of 
course,"  I  thought,  "cruel  to  every- 
thing, beware  of  little  black  men, 
all  devil — soul  like  a  pin-point," 
where  had  I  heard  that! 

"Giv'-a  the  dog,"  he  demanded, 
scowling  down  at  me.  Something 
inside  got^  uncomfortably  large  and 


44 


thumped.  I  said  nothing.  Flinging 
himself  to  the  ground,  he  pointed  to 
Undine's  track. 

"He's  here — sacre!  You  can  no' 
keep!"  He  approached  threatening, 
his  face  evil  as  boiling  pitch.  The 
deserted  aspect  of  the  place  now 
penetrated  to  his  consciousness.  His 
darting  black  eyes  searched  about 
cunningly,  but  he  failed  to  see  a 
black  nose  and  two  shining  beads, 
noting  his  every  movement. 

"Ah;  mia  bella!" 

I  retreated.  He  advanced,  one 
hand  outstretched.  It  was  the  sig- 
nal for  Undine  to  launch  herself 
upon  him. 

"Santa  Maria sacre" 

A  torrent  of  "hog"  Spanish  fol- 
lowed. The  little  dog  snarled  and 
growled  at  the  approaching  man. 
He  kept  her  off  by  kicking  as  he 
edged  toward  a  big  stick,  murder 
written  on  every  line  of  him — poor 
little  Undine!  Running  as  fast  as 
the  ground  would  allow,  for  it  seemed 
to  jump  up  and  down,  I  got  to  the 
bed,  some  distance  off,  and  grabbed 
a  gun.  How  it  stuck  in  the  scabbard! 
At  last  the  hateful  thing  was  out. 


UK  APPROACHED  THREATKXIXG,  HIS  FACE  EVIL 
AS  BOILIXG  PITCH 


I  was  much  afraid  it  would  ex- 
plode, in  my  haste;  holding  it  in 
the  Mexican's  direction,  but  care- 
fully into  the  ground,  I  commanded 
him  to  let  the  dog  alone,  get  on  his 
horse  and  begone. 

This  he  did,  cursing  all  sorts  of 
things  in  his  jargon,  but  without 
wasting  any  time,  the  coward !  Pos- 
sibly he  knew  as  well  as  I,  that  a 
gun  in  the  hands  of  a  nervous 
woman  is  very  dangerous,  indeed. 

When  the  men  returned  they  found 
Undine  nursing  bruises,  and  I  nursing 
the  gun.  As  no  harm  had  been  done, 
it  seemed  best  not  to  pursue  the  man, 
although  Silverton  stayed  on  guard 
that  night  in  case  he  should  return. 
Thus  again  Undine  proved  her  right 
to  be  one  of  us,  for  if  Silverton  had 
not  been  watching — but  then,  he 
was. 

Soon  after  the  milkers'  return  I 
noticed  Nimrod  at  the  spring  care- 
fully washing  the  pails  that  they  had 
brought  back  empty.  I  never  have 
gotten  the  accurate  details  of  that 
expedition,  but  I  believe  that  when 
they  reached  the  herd,  Nimrod  made 
a  bleat  like  a  calf.  Several  cows 


looked  up  and  ran  about  anxiously, 
showing  they  had  calves.  Silverton 
lassoed  one  of  these  and  with  the 
Ordinary  Man's  help  held  her,  while 
Nimrod  did  the  very  precarious 
milking.  He  was  watching  the  cow's 
feet  instead  of  the  pail,  so  had  milked 
a  quart  or  more  before  he  noticed 
that  the  milk  was  streaked  with 
blood.  In  sudden  disgust  he  threw 
it  out,  plentifully  splashing  his  horse's 
feet.  No  one  now  had  any  desire 
for  milk,  so  they  rode  to  camp. 

Thus  unthinkingly  Nimrod  set  the 
lure  for  a  midnight  visitor.  In  the 
darkness  the  herd  had  grazed  nearer 
and  nearer.  Suddenly  we  all  heard 
the  bellow  of  a  bull — urrrh — urrrk — 
urrrh — at  the  spring,  The  men 
chased  him  away,  and  thinking  no 
more  about  it  I  went  to  bed.  Soon 
Nimrod  was  wriggling  into  his 
blankets  nearby.  How  delightfully 
easeful  that  resting  on  air.  But  not 
yet  on  that  eventful  night  was  sleep 
to  woo,  and  win. 

That  old  bull  had  not  been  satis- 
fied. He  had  smelled  tainted  milk 
at  the  spring  and  again  was  investi- 
gating in  wrathful  mood — rrrhh — 


— rrh — stamping  and  snorting  about, 
crazier  got  his  actions,  he  was  work- 
ing himself  into  a  frenzy.  Silverton 
tried  to  drive  him  off.  Instead,  the 
snorting,  stamping  brute  started  our 
way.  Silverton  got  out  his  pistol  but 
dared  not  use  it  in  the  darkness  so 
near  us.  I  tried  to  jump  up. 

"Stay  where  you  are,  it's  your 
only  chance,  he  may  miss  us!" 
Commanded  Nimrod. 

It  was  awful,  that  waiting, 
expecting  every  moment  to  be 
trampled  on  —  when  suddenly  an 
unlocked  for  champion  dashed  to  the 
rescue — yap,  yap,  yip !  It  was  Undine, 
aDavidforGoliath.  Now  her  versatile 
training  showed  forth.  She  knew 
just  what  to  do,  nipping  at  flank  and 
leg  and  darting  out  of  reach,  she 
turned  the  snorting,  pawing  Jugger- 
naut and  drove  it  far  away. 

After  a  time  the  doggie  and 
Silverton  and  the  pistol  came  back; 
but — the  bull  never  did. 

The  beauty  of  the  night  had  re- 
mained unquestioned  and  now  its 
peace  came  back.  I  drowsed  but 
did  not  sleep. 

We  were  nearing  the  home  of  the 


Big  Trees  and  already  they  towered 
triumphantly  to  the  sky. 

How  would  it  feel  to  be  swinging, 
on  the  tippy  top  of  that  giant  red- 
wood? See-saw — I  gave  myself  up 
to  the  soothing  fancy — now  I  was 
swinging  in  it,  as  gently  as  a  babe  in 
its  cradle,  swish,  swish — when  a 
faint,  very  faint  movement  beneath 
brought  me  to  earth  with  a  jar  and 
stiffened  every  muscle  to  wakeful- 
ness.  Something  was  under  the 
heavy  canvas  on  which  rested  the 
rubber  bed.  Nervous,  of  course  I 
was  after  all  the  day's  excitement. 

No,  there  it  was  again.  Had  I 
remembered  to  put  my  horse-hair 
rope  around  the  bed,  the  magic  rope 
that  is  supposed  to  keep  the  rattle- 
snakes away?  Had  I?  Now  I  remem- 
ber it  was  in  place!  Perhaps  I  was 
to  have  the  opportunity  of  testing  it. 
No  one  not  even  the  oldest  inhabitant, 
attempts  to  deny  the  numerous 
rattlesnakes  in  the  Sierra.  Ah!  that 
sneaking  insinuating  motion,  very 
gentle,  I  could  hardly  feel,  or  hear, 
or  whatever  sense  it  was  that  con- 
veyed the  intelligence — but  unmis- 
takable. It  had  gotten  under  there 


somehow  and  was  trying  to  get  out. 
Did  that  horse-hair  quite  meet,  or 
had  I  arranged  it  carelessly?  I  pic- 
tured the  rattler  going  all  around 
me  trying  at  every  undulation  to 
pass  the  rope  whose  stiff  bristles 
repelled  its  sensitive  throat,  per- 
haps it  had  found  the  opening  and 
was  gliding  in!  Perhaps  it  preferred 
hair  ropes  to  any  other  road. 

' '  Nimrod ' '  said  a  small  thin  voice, 
"have  you  got  the  electric  lamp 
within  reach?  There  is  a — '  I  did 
not  say  it,  " — something  under  my 
bed.  There,  did  n't  you  hear  it?" 

This  time  the  noise  was  much 
louder. 

"Squ-eee-eek." 

"It's  a  field  mouse  getting  jolly 
well  squashed.  Now  he  is  gone," 
said  the  masculine  voice  with  in- 
finite patience  and  resumed  his  inter- 
rupted slumbers.  A  flash  of  the 
electric  lamp  showed  Undine  curled 
up  comfortably  near  on  a  saddle 
blanket.  She  opened  one  eye  and 
cocked  an  ear,  politely  enquiring, 
"Why  don't  you  do  the  same?"  So 
I  did. 


PART  II. 
IN  THE  ROCKIES 


THE  GRAND  CANON  AND  WHAT  IT  DID 
TO  NIMROD 

IMROD  and  I  were  mak- 
ing one  of  those  conti- 
nent-jumping trips  over 
which  the  foreigner 
still  is  aghast.  We  ex- 
pected to  join  Sally  and 
Bobbie  Tevis  in  Idaho  at  the  end  of 
the  week.  The  night  before  we  had 
left  Los  Angeles  with  the  thermom- 
eter over  the  hundred-in-the-shade 
mark,  and  as  I  made  a  restricted 
night  toilet  in  a  lower  berth  and 
closed  tired  eyes,  there  passed  be- 
fore memory's  eye  the  sparkling 
light,  the  twinkling  sand,  the  hot 


blue  sky,  the  air  now  soft,  now  fierce, 
but  always  caressing,  and  everywhere 
bright  flowers  on  fence  and  tree  and 
house,  a  riot  of  brilliant  blooms— 
especially  that  mass  of  scarlet  gerani- 
ums at  the  station  blazing  its  name 
in  welcome  or  goodbye  to  all  who 
passed.  In  the  berth  above,  I  could 
hear  the  turnings  and  squirmings 
of  Nimrod,  who  was  performing  his 
sleeping  car  penance. 

"Look  out,  they  're  coming!" 
It  was  a  gentle  whisper  from  above. 

"What  is  it?  Oh"— and  my 
sleepy  gaze  fastened  on  a  ghostly 
hand  descending  within  the  line  of 
vision.  It  held  a  black  object  which 
fell  to  the  floor  with  a  thud;  an- 
other followed.  The  porter  would 
know  what  to  do  with  them. 

I  suppose  we  really  walked  in  the 
trail  of  good  luck  when  we  visited 
the  Grand  Canon,  for  we  saw  in 
its  most  curious  phase,  that  mightiest 
gash  of  a  mighty  river  in  its  immen- 
sity and  beauty,  suddenly  roll  wonder 
on  wonder  before  us ,  as  though  the 
whole  world  were  striving  then  and 
there  to  empty  its  coffers  in  one 
glorious  offering  at  the  feet  of  God! 


57 


but  we  knew  not  what  was  reserved 
for  us  and  when  we  passed  from 
the  warm  Pullman  sleeping  car  on  to 
the  platform  of  Flagstaff  we  shivered 
and  repined. 

Although  it  was  nearly  June,  Na- 
ture in  her  vagaries  had  flung  a  snow 
storm  around  San  Francisco  peak  and 
we  in  summer  clothes  with  only  hand 
baggage  thought  regretfully  of  the 
trunks  and  warm  clothing  that  were 
speeding  onward  to  Pine  Cone  Lodge. 

Between  eye-shutting  and  eye- 
opening  to  be  plunged  from  warmth, 
light,  flowers,  all  out-doors  in  joyous 
mood,  to  the  sleet  and  snow  and  the 
wind  that  was  almost  a  blizzard,  and 
cold  against  which  our  covering 
seemed  no  protection,  required  a 
plentiful  application  of  traveller's 
philosophy.  The  street  in  front  of 
us  was  running  rivers  of  slush. 
Nimrod  was  the  first  to  recover. 
He  broke  the  silence  that  had  hung 
over  us,  leaden  as  the  clouds  above. 

"Well,  let's  get  into  this  'one-hoss 
shay'  and  see  if  it  can  float  us  to 
the  hotel — Driver,  what's  the  best 
hotel?  The  Palace?'  We  looked 
at  each  other  with  grim  humour. 


If  it  could  only  have  been  Smith's 
or  Brown's  or  Jones's  there  might 
have  been  some  chance  of  decent 
accommodation,  but  the  "Palaces" 
and  the  "Royals"  —well,  we  knew 
them. 

I  resisted  a  woman's  inclination 
to  cower  and  straightened  to  meet 
the  cutting  blast  that  swept  around 
the  station  corner  as  though  Boreas 
himself  was  in  charge. 

"Yes,  there  it  is,"  Nimrod  said 
in  a  resigned  voice  as  we  looked 
through  the  window  of  an  antique 
omnibus  upholstered  in  red-and- 
green  Brussels  carpet,  and  read  a 
legend  "The  Palace  Hotel"  in  brazen 
black  letters  on  the  false  third-story 
front  of  a  frame  two-story  clap- 
board structure  that  ran  back  on 
its  narrow  site  like  a  train  of  cars. 
We  knew  already  that  the  ground 
floor  windows  gave  light  to  an 
"office"  where  was  the  clerk's  desk 
and  billboard,  and  which  served  for 
the  lounging  room.  Wooden  arm 
chairs,  their  backs  reinforced  by  iron 
rods,  to  accommodate  the  habit  of 
continual  tilting  by  their  occupants, 
were  placed  against  the  wall  and 


59 


hyphenated  periodically  by  brown 
earthen  dishes  which  combined  in 
their  big  round  shapes  the  opposing 
emblems  of  cleanliness  and  filth. 
The  long,  broad  table  supplied  with 
inkwells  and  cheap  stationery  and 
the  local  papers,  all  rather  untidy, 
would  be  sure  to  occupy  some  por- 
tion of  the  office  space,  and  the 
"bar,"  separated  only  by  abbre- 
viated swinging  doors,  would  give 
forth  its  individual  odours  and  its 
voices;  also  we  knew  that  beyond 
the  office  was  the  dining  room  with 
its  long  tables  always  set  with  the 
"usuals,"  including  toothpicks,  and 
the  kitchen,  not  by  any  means 
hiding  its  essential  part  in  the  hotel 
economics;  while  above  stairs  the 
long,  narrow  corridor  would  be  bro- 
ken by  doors  that  gave  the  entrance 
to  cell-like  rooms,  each  small,  square 
and  stuffy,  lighted  by  one  window 
and  furnished  with  ingrain  carpet, 
a  pine  bedroom  set,  and  the  noises 
of  one's  neighbours. 

We  arrived  and  dashed  through  the 
torrent.  How  depressing  it  all  was 
in  its  sordid  usefulness!  no  extreme 
for  good  or  ill  that  might  lift  it  to 


6o 


the  picturesque.  It  was  an  ex- 
pression of  the  crudity  of  man  when 
he  has  broken  away  from  the  primi- 
tive and  is  trying  to  make  a  big 
showing  in  a  cheap  way,  and  often 
does  he  do  this  in  the  very  lap  of 
Nature's  grandest  achievements  such 
as  here  where  she  has  with  indiffer- 
ence taken  centuries  of  time  and  em- 
ployed all  the  mighty  agents  at  her 
command,  the  sun,  the  air,  the  water 
and  the  earth,  all  the  elements  to 
make  a  home  for  one  of  her  vassals, 
the  Colorado,  and  to  paint  it  in  all 
the  colours  that  could  beautify. 
Then  does  man  erect  a  structure  of 
his  on  its  surface,  as  a  fleck  of  soot 
mars  the  face  of  a  beautiful  woman, 
putting  up  a  false  front,  painting 
its  pine  boards  to  look  like  brick, 
and  its  pine  furniture  to  look  like 
mahogany,  papering  its  walls  to 
look  like  marble,  curtains  that  imi- 
tate lace,  a  melodeon  that  imitates 
a  piano,  tissue  paper  that  is  cut  and 
twisted  into  shameless  shapes  of 
flowers  in  an  imitation  Worcester 
vase — nothing  honest  but  the  fly- 
paper and  the  spittoon. 

It  is  necessary  perhaps,  this  civil- 


isation  in  its  first  tottering  steps, 
but  how  different  are  the  homes 
of  those  who  live  with  nature,  of 
the  Indian,  the  frontiersman  and 
the  scout — of  the  life  in  the  open 
that  for  another  month  I  was  going 
to  lead.  The  blood  jumped  through 
my  veins  at  the  thought.  No  mat- 
ter if  the  wind  does  blow,  no  matter 
if  the  street  is  a  foot  thick  in  slimy 
mud  and  the  sleet  beating  down 
mercilessly;  it  is  simply  nature  in  a 
wild  mood — I  have  seen  her  in 
worse.  It  seems  trying  to  one  ac- 
customed to  the  pampering  com- 
forts of  man's  ingenuity,  but  soon 
I  shall  throw  off  that  yoke  and  walk 
as  a  little  sister  with  this  big  brother, 
earth. 

We  had  given  ourselves  very  little 
time  to  visit  the  Canon  and  when 
we  were  informed  that  the  stage 
would  not  run  to  the  Canon  that  day, 
the  prospect  of  spending  a  third  of 
the  precious  time  in  the  Palace 
Hotel  at  Flagstaff  met  with  scant 
favour. 

"It  is  cold  as  liquid  air,  none  of 
these  dainty  sons  of  the  soil  want  to 
take  their  horses  out,"  said  Nimrod 


as  he  stood  at  the  window  in  the 
office  looking  disconsolately  at  the 
storm.  The  street  was  running  rivers 
of  mud  lashed  by  the  wind,  the  down- 
pour swept  past  in  undulating  waves 
of  sleety  wetness. 

"Of  course,  we  must  get  to  the 
Canon  to-night,"  I  made  answer. 

"There  are  seventy  miles  of  it. 
Can  you  do  it?" 

He   needed   no    assurance. 

"I  will  skirmish  for  a  private 
conveyance.  Can  you  be  ready  in 
an  hour  if  my  gold  proves  convinc- 
ing?'1 

"Easily.  Do  you  suppose  we  can 
borrow  an  umbrella?  I  saw  a  'Dry 
Goods  Emporium'  down  the  street 
as  we  came  up  from  the  station  and 
hope  it  will  yield  us  some  sweaters 
and  warm  things. ' '  I  felt  as  bloodless 
as  a  sheet  of  paper. 

An  hour  later  we  dashed  out  of 
town  behind  four  half -broken  mus- 
tangs whose  principal  endeavour 
seemed  to  be  to  stay  off  the  ground 
as  much  as  possible.  The  two-seated 
mountain  carry-all  swung  from  side 
to  side,  sending  the  mud  in  showers 
around  it  and  upon  the  tarpaulin 


curtains  that  partially  protected  us. 
We  were  on  the  back  seat  and  I 
wondered  if  we  really  could  stay 
right  side  up. 

"Driver  what  is  the  matter  with 
the  horses?"  burst  from  me.  "Oh, 
look  at  that  leader!  Heavens,  we'll 
be  in  the  ditch!"  Nimrod  reached 
out  a  steadying  hand  under  the  robe 
as  he  grasped  the  guard  rail  with  the 
other  hand.  "Should  say  he  was 
practising  the  hornpipe  on  one  leg, 
but  the  driver  seems  to  understand 
them." 

The  driver  having  now  extricated 
his  leader  from  the  ditch  and  con- 
fined the  cavorting  of  the  wheelers 
to  the  middle  of  the  road  answered: 

"Oh,  they  are  all  right,  ma'am. 
They're  a  bit  fresh,  that's  all. 
They'll  go  a  nice  pace  after  they 
have  worked  off  five  mile  or  so.  Ye 
see  they  ain't  no  great  pals  with 
their  leather  yet."  I  gave  myself 
a  dose  of  "don't  care"  philosophy, 
having  acquired  this  trick  on  pre- 
vious occasions—  ;<Yes,  this  is  bad, 
awful,  in  fact,  or  so  it  seems  to  you, 
but  it  has  happened  before  to  others 
and  will  happen  again.  Are  you 


a  craven  soul?  What  is  your  fear, 
that  you  may  get  hurt?  The  real 
part  of  you  cannot  be  hurt  by  any- 
thing physical,  and  if  you  are  going 
to  be  hurt — well,  you  will  be,  fear 
will  not  help  you.  'Cowards  die 
many  times  before  their  deaths '- 
Ugh!  away  with  it" — and  began 
to  feel  better. 

"Tra  la  la,  tra  la  la,  dear  boy, 
we  are  really  getting  to  the  Canon, 
'the  mighty  channel  that  the  mighty 
Colorado  has  worn  through  the  ages, 
etc.,  etc/  Brrh!  Isn't  it  cold?  Fancy 
June  behaving  like  this.  San  Fran- 
cisco Peak  is  covered  with  snow. 
I  just  caught  a  glimpse  when  the 
clouds  lifted  a  little.  Driver,  don't 
you  think  the  storm  is  nearly  over?" 

The  man  thus  addressed  shifted 
his  quid  from  one  cheek  to  the  other 
and  emptied  his  mouth  of  sufficient 
fluid  to  make  speech  comfortable. 

"It's  nigh  on  three  days,  I  reckon, 
a  change's  about  due.  The  folks 
at  the  Canon  been  held  up  since 
Monday.  May  be  they  won't  ob- 
ject to  seein'  the  mail  bag." 

The  horses  for  the  past  fifteen 
miles  had  been  going  a  steady  gait 


and  now  showed  signs  of  increased 
activity,  which  I  interpreted  as  mean- 
ing the  nearness  of  the  relay  station. 
Although  in  a  private  conveyance 
we  carried  the  mail  bag  and  were 
using  the  post  route  horses.  We 
drew  up  with  a  flourish  in  front  of 
the  one-story  log  " shack,"  divided 
equally  into  quarters  for  the  men 
and  the  horses.  No  one  was  visible, 
but  immediately  there  were  sounds 
of  "Whoa,  you  devil,  whoa  there, 
save  your  hide"-— and  a  man  ap- 
peared with  two  dancing  animals 
partially  harnessed.  They  repre- 
sented many  bloods,  but  principally 
"cayuse."  Regardless  of  the  evi- 
dent equine  remonstrance  the  men 
without  further  ado  tied  each  to  a 
hitching  post  well-separated  and  has- 
tened to  help  the  driver  and  a  third 
man  disentangle  the  four  whose 
twenty-odd  miles  of  hard  work  had 
not  seriously  impaired  their  vicious- 
ness.  I  waited  until  peace  reigned 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  carry-all  and 
then  climbing  over  the  front  seat 
in  order  not  to  disturb  the  side- 
curtains  so  securely  fastened,  pre- 
pared to  descend.  We  were  only 


66 


stopping  long  enough  to  change 
horses.  Nimrod  was  already  on  the 
ground. 

"Oh,  how  glorious  it  is  already," 
I  cried,  "the  rain  has  almost  gone 
and  we  shall  soon  be  able  to  see  about 
us,  after  all.  Driver,  where  are  the 
fresh  leaders — what's  your  name, 
please?" 

The  driver,  a  short  thick-set  man 
with  a  thin,  rather  finely  cut  face 
and  drooping  moustache,  stopped 
in  his  task  of  changing  certain 
harness  from  the  incoming  to  the 
outgoing  wheelers  and  brought  out 
his  remarks  in  an  accustomed 
slow  speech. 

"My  handle  is  Sommers,  ma'am. 
They'll  be  out  in  a  minute.  Ye  hit 
it  plumb  right.  They're  fresh,  an1 
we'll  all  be  ready  to  move  when  they 
are  introduced.  Now  ma'am,  if  you'll 
step  in" — gallantly  offering  to  help 
me  into  the  carry-all. 

"But  the  horses  aren't  attached 
yet,"  I  demurred.  "No  ma'am," 
said  Sommers  politely,  with  the  air  of 
having  already  explained,  "ye  see 
they  prefer  to  move  and  it's  healthier 
to  be  ready  to  go  with  them." 


Nimrod  and  I  got  into  the  back 
seat  and  awaited  developments, 
which  were  immediately  forthcom- 
ing. The  four  men  got  the  wheelers 
into  position  and  the  reins  passed 
over  the  dashboard  and  secured. 
It  was  a  lively  skirmish,  but  soon 
over.  A  man  remained  at  the  head 
of  each  wheeler  and  the  other  two 
disappeared  into  the  stable  and 
after  much  commotion,  men  and 
horses  burst  into  the  open.  I  saw 
two  mouse-coloured  animals  with 
long  ears  laid  back  viciously  and  the 
short-haired  tail  that  suggested  mule 
and  the  stamping  feet  and  roll- 
ing eye  of  wicked  horse.  The 
kicking  and  the  bucking,  the  plung- 
ing and  rearing  of  these  mountain 
products,  was  only  equalled  by  the 
calm,  irresistible  determination  of  the 
men  to  bend  brute  will  to  theirs. 
At  first  the  issue  seemed  doubtful, 
then  it  became  apparent  that  slowly, 
with  many  a  circling  and  bucking, 
the  "jacks"  were  being  forced  in 
front  of  the  wheelers,  who  now  be- 
came excited  and  plunged  and  reared 
to  help  the  general  confusion. 

I   was   beginning   to   understand 


why  it  was  necessary  to  be  "  ready 
to  move."  I  felt  a  bit  ill.  "Oh 
you  miserable  rabbit!  Your  old 
enemy  again,  Fear,  sitting  on  your 
shoulder.  Cannot  you  get  some  of 
the  calm  of  these  men,  if  only — 
Oh  mercy!" 

This  last  exclamation  was  jerked 
out  by  a  sudden  lurch  of  the  carry- 
all as  the  wheelers,  breaking  away 
from  restraint,  started  to  bolt.  The 
brake  was  jammed  hard  down  and 
the  leaders  were  in  the  way.  An 
awful  mix-up  ensued.  One  horse 
was  down;  phrases  were  flying  in 
the  air.  "Whoa,  there  you  devil!" 
"Here  you,  go  sit  on  his  head" — 
"Look  out,  this  ain't  no  pink-tea 
party,  Baldy's  got  la-igs,"  "Whoa 
there.  I've  got  him!!"  "Oh  hell! 
Steady  there,  have  you  got  it  buck- 
led? "  '  'Hold  him  tight! "  By  some 
incredible  sleight  of  hand  the  few 
buckles  were  fastened,  the  reins 
slipped  through  the  guards,  and 
Sommers  jumped  to  his  seat,  gath- 
ered up  the  reins,  loosened  the  brake 
a  little,  shouted  "Now!"  The  men 
scrambled  away  from  the  plunging 
leaders — and  bedlam  was  let  loose. 


69 


The  leaders  reared,  backed,  twisted 
until  they  were  so  tied  up  in  the 
harness  that  they  were  helpless. 
The  three  men  after  much  struggling 
and  great  risk  of  injury,  managed 
to  disentangle  them. 

"Get  a  whip  and  lash  'em,  make 
'em  go,"  called  Sommers,  as  calm 
as  though  giving  an  order  to  feed 
them  four  quarts  apiece.  Again  the 
order  was  given.  ' '  Ready — sail  into 
them."  The  horses  were  released 
and  before  they  could  turn,  a  merci- 
less lashing  sent  them  forward  with 
ears  laid  back.  From  side  to  side 
the  carry-all  swung,  bump — thump 

— jerk .  We  clung  to  each  other 

and  to  the  carriage.  First  on  one 
wheel  then  on  another  it  tottered, 
but  the  driver  was  clever.  He  made 
no  attempt  to  keep  the  road.  Here 
no  fences  confined  it  and  the  way 
was  level  and  sandy  with  a  thin  car- 
pet of  low  vegetation.  After  a  mile 
of  this  I  ventured  to  speak.  There 
was  as  yet  no  sign  of  docility  and 
the  animals  pursued  their  snake- 
like  course. 

11 A  fresh  horse  in  this  country 
evidently  means  an  unbroken  one. 


It's  an  outrage  to  have  to  drive  with 
such  creatures." 

"Ye  see,  Ma'am,  that's  why  the 
boss  didn't  specially  hanker  to  send 
ye  out.  He  don't  keep  no  lady's 
hosses  in  this  outfit,  an'  this  being 
in  the  beginning  of  the  season,  them 
cayuses  will  know  more  if  they  live 
through  it.  But  them  leaders  come 
mixed,  hoss  an'  mule;  mighty  tough, 
an'  mighty  ornery." 

"They  ought  to  be  broken  before 
risking  traveller's  lives.  Are  you 
afraid?"  Gracious!  We  struck  a 
gnarled  shrub  and  swung  sidewise 
dangerously  and  I  repented  my 
loquacity.  I  was  answered  in  the 
order  of  remarks. 

"Yes  ma'am,  but  it  is  cheaper 
for  the  Company  to  do  it  this  way. 
No  ma' am;  leastways  it  don't  count." 

I  wondered  whether  he  really  did 
know  fear.  Whether  or  not,  it  was 
evident  that  it  did  not  "count." 
I  laid  the  thought  away  after  label- 
ling it  "tonic,"  but  asked  no  more 
questions,  and  after  three  miles  had 
worried  past  and  a  steep  ascent 
begun,  the  animals  had  lost  some 
of  their  energy,  although  they  con- 


THE  ROAD  LED  THROUGH  THE  FRAGRANT  DEEP- 
SHADOWED  PINES 


tinned  to  be  nervous  to  the  end 
of  the  relay. 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  Unaccus- 
tomed to  such  excitement  and  long 
hours  of  cramped  sitting,  we  were 
feeling  wearied  and  chilled,  and  the 
sandwich  lunch  brought  from  the 
Palace  Hotel  and  eaten  en  route, 
was  causing  discomfort. 

Tired  as  I  was,  the  charm  of  the 
mountains  began  to  claim  me.  The 
storm  had  passed.  All  was  damp 
and  soggy  and  the  sun  could  not 
break  through  a  barrier  of  clouds, 
but  the  greyness  was  deepening 
into  darker  shadows,  and  the  time 
of  all  the  day  that  I  loved  most, 
its  close,  had  come.  The  road  had 
been  mounting  for  the  past  two 
hours  and  at  six  o'clock  the  third 
and  last  relay  station  was  reached. 
The  change  of  horses  was  accom- 
plished without  much  trouble,  and 
we  dashed  off  through  the  fragrant, 
deep-shadowed  pines,  on  the  twenty- 
mile  home  stretch  to  the  little  log 
hotel  on  the  Canon's  edge.  We  were 
now  on  a  table  land  clothed  with 
alpine  forest,  its  pungent  odour  was 
like  a  draught  of  wine,  intoxicating 


74 


with  a  promise  of  all  the  glad  days 
to  come. 

"I  hope  they  have  something1 
substantial.  No  communication  for 
three  days  and  a  party  of  ten  snow 
bound  there  is  not  encouraging," 
said  Nimrod, '  beating  his  hands  to- 
gether to  restore  circulation. 

Another  hour  past.  "See,  isn't 
that  a  light,"  at  last! 

"At  least  there  will  be  hot  coffee," 
he  added,  apprehensively.  Seventy 
miles  of  cold  and  storm  with  only 
a  sandwich  lunch  having  made  us 
solicitous  of  creature  comforts.  The 
sounds  of  the  wagon  had  brought 
some  one  to  the  door  and  a  cheering 
bar  of  light  streamed  into  the  dark- 
ness. There  was  hot  coffee  and  other 
things  and  with  anticipation  of  the 
morrow,  we  stole  up  the  rough  un- 
carpeted  stairs  to  a  cold,  bare  little 
room,  undressed  shivering,  and  as 
quickly  as  possible  sought  oblivion 
on  a  bumpy  mattress  under  calico 
patch-work  quilts — maximum  of 
weight  and  minimum  of  warmth. 
I  love  creature  comforts,  the  tub 
bath,  the  warm  dressing  room,  the 
nightly  hair  brushing,  the  soft  light 


75 


covering  and  easeful  bed — and  when 
foregone,  it  is  a  deliberate  renuncia- 
tion for  some  recognised  good.  After 
all,  those  things  do  not  touch  the 
soul,  and  life  in  the  mountains  does. 
Under  its  spell  the  unimportant  de- 
tails of  a  routine  life  in  the  East  shrink 
to  their  proper  size  and  one  expands 
as  the  purple  lupin  unfolds  its  sensi- 
tive leaves  to  the  sun,  and  shuts 
them  again  in  the  dark. 

In  the  morning  I  opened  eyes  on 
the  figure  of  Nimrod  perched  on  a 
chair  peering  through  a  small  win- 
dow in  the  roof. 

"Well?" 

"Can't  see  a  thing.  A  thick  grey 
fog — might  as  well  be  on  board  ship. 
What  luck!" 

About  eleven  there  were  signs  of 
the  fog  lifting  and  we,  eager  with 
anticipation,  put  on  rubber  coats 
and  goloshes.  We  were  cautioned 
not  to  go  more  than  a  hundred  feet 
from  the  door,  as  the  Canon  began 
abruptly.  Hand  in  hand  we  ad- 
vanced through  the  mist  until  sud- 
denly we  stopped  and  drew  back 
breathless.  The  peculiar  difference 
in  the  blankness  before  us  showed 


76 


that  in  a  moment  we  would  have 
stepped  off  into  space  to  fall — how 
far  we  could  not  tell,  but  even  then, 
as  we  stood  straining  our  eyes,  ap- 
peared in  ghostly  forms  the  tops  of 
trees.  The  place  was  full  of  mystery, 
as  we  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  un- 
known that  peculiar  stillness  of  a 
fog  heavy  about  us,  while  spread 
before,  if  we  could  but  penetrate 
the  veil,  lay  unimagined  wonders  of 
Nature's  treasure  house.  Then  the 
thick  whiteness  around  us  began 
moving  right  to  left  and  upward. 
The  whole  closed  curtain  rose  wave 
after  wave,  mile  after  mile,  and 
revealed  an  expanse  of  colour  and 
form  shining  in  the  sunlight  stretch- 
ing on — on — to  the  end  of  the  world, 
so  appallingly  beautiful  that  I  felt 
my  brain  reel.  Turning  away  from 
the  terrifying  grandeur  of  it,  I  sank 
to  the  ground .  The  suddenness  of  the 
revelation  had  left  no  time  for  prep- 
aration, and  I  gazed  at  the  com- 
monplace grass  blades  to  restore  my 
balance. 

In  a  moment,  half  ashamed  of 
so  much  emotion,  I  looked  up  to  see 
Nimrod  disappearing  into  the  stable. 


77 


He  was  gone  so  long  that  I  began 
to  feel  worried;  then  he  came  back 
looking  triumphant  and  a  little  sheep- 
ish. Without  a  word  he  thrust  an 
envelope  into  my  hand  with  some- 
thing written  on  it.  Mushrooms 
grow  best  in  dark  detritus,  the  edel- 
weiss scorns  all  but  the  most  rugged 
spot  in  which  to  flower,  Nimrod 
in  a  pigsty e  had  produced  this: 

"A  thousand  miles — the  continent  upheav- 
ing 

Thro  storms  of  sand,  of  rain,  of  driving  snow, 

And  then  a  sudden  pause  upon  an  awful 
hidden  brink 

Where  all  upheaval  seemed  to  fail,  an  inch 
before  your  very  feet. 

The  reason  lost,  the  universe  forgot,  in 
mists  unknown,  immeasurable. 

And  then  a  change: 

This  way  and  that  the  Powers  uproll  the 

veil; 
An  inch  beyond   your  very  foot  a  great 

abyss. 
Down!  down!  down!  the  mists  are  rolled 

away, 
Thousands  upon   thousands   of  headlong 

dizzy  feet. 
Down !  down !  down !  with  piney  forests  on 

their  nearest  side, 
More  small  than  moss, 
Down  1  down !  down !  to  blue  eternity. 


And  up!  up!  up!   the  swirling  mists  are 

rolled, 

Till  peaks  prismatic  gleam  and  rise 
In  sheen  of  purple,  opal,  red  and  gold. 
Up !  up !  in  ranks  until  they  seem  to  comb 

the  flying  scud 

That  swims  upon  the  heaven  of  heavens ; 
And  shadowy  peaks  still  higher  yet  appear, 
And  up  and  up  and  upward  still,  till  lost  in 

blue  eternity. 

And  still  the  mist  is  rolled  away, 

And  in  the  light  of  revelation  there, 

Far  down — unspeakably  far, 

A   long   thin  winding   shining  line — gray 

green, 

The  river — ancient  as  the  earth — 
Whose  aqua-fortis  flood,  God's  graver  was, 
With  which  this  gorge  was  cut. 
Profounder  than   the  gulfs  between    the 

stars  it  seemed, 
And  awful  as  the  day  of  Judgment  come. 

One  moment  there  the  sun  refulgent  shone ; 
Then  warning,  "Thou  hast  seen  enough 
For  all  thy  days  remaining." 
Far  down  the  mist  of  mists  is  rolled  again 
A  film,  a  veil,  a  curtain-like  futurity, 
The  last,  the  nearest  of  the  peak  is  hid, 
And  just  an  inch  beyond  your  very  foot 
An  awful  brink  abysmal." 

Just  think  what  it  did  to  him — a 
calliper  scientist. 

In  a  place  homely — most  homely— 


and  time-tried  he  had  sought  mental 
equilibrium.  He  had  to  run  away 
from  the  tremendous  vision  to 
unload  his  mind  of  the  burden,  ere 
it  was  crushed! 

In  the  sublime  there  is  no  laughter; 
so  more  sanely  now  we  surveyed 
the  scene.  All  the  colours  of  the 
rainbow  blazed  mile  after  mile  away 
like  some  titanic  jewel  casket,  with 
the  gem  of  all,  the  boiling,  seething 
flood  of  the  Colorado  flashing  like 
a  tiny  streak  of  lightning,  down 
crag  after  crag,  valley  after  valley, 
below. 

So  this  was  the  Canon  that  paint- 
ers had  dared  to  portray,  that  writers 
had  dared  to  describe.  I  was 
drunk  with  the  gorgeous  beauty 
and  immensity  of  it,  even  glad  to 
turn  away  and  be  busied  with  the 
details  of  a  horseback  ride  along  the 
brink.  We  reluctantly  decided  to 
give  up  the  trip  down  the  Canon, 
as  Hank's  Trail  was  out  of  repair 
and  dangerous  owing  to  the  storm. 
The  guides  were  unwilling  to  take 
us  that  day,  and  we  could  not  wait. 

As  I  was  getting  into  the  saddle, 
having  obtained  a  battered  riding 


8o 


skirt,  a  nomadic  "outfit"  of  Indians 
came  up  to  the  hotel.  There  were 
about  twenty  horses,  five  men  and 
several  women,  children  and  dogs. 
They  were  not  allowed  to  stop,  but 
passed  at  a  snail's  pace,  while  two 
of  the  men  bartered  badger  skins 
for  tobacco  and  sugar,  and  a  squaw 
displayed  some  baskets  and  bead- 
work  of  Apache  designs. 

"It  is  good  to  be  here  before  the 
railroad  and  the  funicular  to  the 
bottom  and  the  modern  hotel  and 
all  the  tiresome  civilisation  that  is 
sure  to  come,  and  before  the  Indians 
give  us  Greek  beadwork." 

"The  savages  out-savaged,"  Nim- 
rod  replied,  mounting  his  animal, 
and  gibed  no  more,  for  the  Buckskin 
playfully  rolled  his  eyes  and  bucked 
and  bucked  and  bucked. 


IV. 


A    DISCURSION    ON    THE    BRONCHO 


E  were  to  " outfit"  at 
PineCone  Lodge,  Idaho, 
ninety  miles  from  the 
railroad.  The"Tevi," 
our  usual  manner  of 
designating  Sally  and 
Bobbie  plurally,  were  already  waiting 
charged  with  the  task  of  making  ar- 
rangements. Bert  Sommers  came 
with  us;  Nimrod  providently  annexed 
him  at  the  Canon,  knowing  that  he 
was  footloose  and  a  native  of  the 
Bitter  Roots. 

"  He  knows  how  to  manage  these 
animated    pepper    pots    they    call 


horses,  and  he  knows  the  country!" 
Enough,  a  good  guide  is  a  precious 
thing,  to  be  secured  when  found, 
like  a  nugget  in  the  road. 

Sally  Tevis  is  wonderful.  She  is 
not  exceptionally  beautiful,  but  she 
makes  one  think  she  is.  Her  figure 
is  long  and  thin,  her  face  is  thin  and 
long,  her  hair  is  black  and  straight, 
her  complexion  is  sallow  from  a 
liberal  allowance  of  ill  health  and 
she  is  no  longer  young,  fast  losing 
the  thirties;  but  the  wit,  keen  per- 
ception, wide  cultivation  and  the 
initiated  yet  sweet  outlook  on  life, 
makes  so  brilliant  a  spirit  that  it 
flares  through  a  common-place 
exterior  as  the  sun  through  a 
window.  I  always  think  of  her  as 
young  and  beautiful.  She  is,  for  her 
spirit  is  that  and  she  is  all  spirit. 
"  A  wisp  of  fire,  "  Bobbie  once  called 
her. 

The  Tevi  rode  out  several  miles 
to  meet  us.  Sally  was  attired  in  a 
very  new  costume  of  grey  corduroy 
elaborately  banded  and  vested  with 
leather,  the  same  as  her  high  boots. 
The  skirt  was  short  and  artistically 
bifurcated.  "It  is  its  premiere — 


the  only  model  that  does  not  make 
a  woman  look  a  fright,"  she  said, 
submitting  to  my  inspection — 
"  Bobbie  approves,  he  hinted  at 
rather  more  leather,  but  it  will  stand 
alone  now,  I  think.  It  is  very  heavy 
and  stiff  but  Bobbie  would  have  it 
match  his,  and  you  know  the  Duchess 

has  one  in  which  she  rides  'cross 

country.  Otherwise  no,  not  at  all 
for  little  Sally.  You  look  as  fresh 
and  lovely  as  ever"  (Sally  always 
says  agreeable  things)  "but  you 
must  be  tired.  Everything  is  packed 
ready  for  to-morrow  from  the  essen- 
tial powderpuff  in  my  saddle  bag 
to  the  unimportant  food  and 
bedding."  She  deposited  a  light  kiss 
on  the  left  cheek  as  I  scrambled  out 
of  the  buckboard  over  saddles  and 
bundles. 

"  You  won't  find  anything  here  but 
a  few  decrepit  'lung-ers'  and  a  man 
with  a  grouch.  He  may  be  dis- 
tinguished by  a  scowl  and  green 
plaid  stockings.  Green  is  the  safety 
signal,  but  don't  be  deceived;  I  have 
suffered,  so  I  have  warned." 

We  ate  a  nondescript  meal  to  this 
lively  accompaniment  and  going 


some  distance  from  the  rambling 
log  "  shack "  and  its  cluster  of  one- 
room  log  cabins  that  formed  Pine 
Cone  Lodge,  the  Tevi,  Nimrod  and 
I  spent  the  afternoon  in  target 
practice,  for  later  when  we  are  in 
game  country  we  could  not  be  bang- 
ing guns  and  disturbing  all  the  game 
within  ten  miles. 

Nimrod  does  not  shoot  except  with 
the  camera,  gave  it  up  long  ago. 
He  hunts  the  animals  longer  and 
harder  than  any  to  study  them.  I 
had  one  rifle  and  the  Tevi  had  six 
"shooting  irons/'  Not  that  the  Tevi 
are  so  bloodthirsty  but  Bobbie  Tevis 
attended  to  the  equipment  and  Bob- 
bie has  theories.  Everything  he  has, 
Sally  must  have;  it  easily  resulted  in 
an  arsenal,  two  rifles,  two  shotguns, 
a  Mauser  and  a  twenty-two  for  small 
things;  and  Sally  industriously  hunts 
and  shoots  when  Bobbie  hunts  and 
shoots,  wears  waterproof  boots  like 
his  and  a  hat  like  his,  and  is  also  in 
grey-brown  clothes  the  colour  of  the 
woods.  A  red  shirt  waist  (red  is 
Sally's  colour),  independently  pur- 
chased, was  left  behind. 

"  Bobbie    was    afraid   the   game 


might  see  it  or  smell  it  through  the 
leatheroid  telescope  and  fly  the 
country,"  Sally  explained,  giving 
her  husband  an  affectionate  pa: 

ract  any  possible  stir. 

"You   know.    Petty,    I    si:^ 
your  bringing  it  for  wear  in  camp." 

"  Yes.  but  it  came  out  at  the  last 
minute  to  make  room  for  that  o 
hundred  rounds  of  ammunition.     We 
are  quite  ready  to  be  subsidised  by 
some  South  American  government. 
Good,  P 
shot,  a  bull 

rely  in  the 

it  to  ma!  If  or. 

while    she    nibbed    the  :     of 

Bobbie's    good    temp 

.   she  immediately   smc\ 
k  again.     1  1   should 

'se  her  methods  but  re  so 

successful,  and  Ximrod  s.  does 

not  obi, 

when  he  sv  if  it 

is  done  are 

that  way,  it  w  em. 

Sally  is  a  good  in  spite  of 

her  brown  <.  rely  misses  the 

bull's  eye,  Bobbie  is  as  proud  of  it  as 
though  it  were  his  accomplishment. 


86 


"I  wonder  what  luck  in  horses 
this  time,"  said  Nimrod.  "I  hope 
they  are  safe." 

The  Tevi  exchanged  glances. 

"Well,  we  have  done  our  best," 
Bobbie  exclaimed,  in  dogged  tones 
that  suggested  history. 

"  You  may  as  well  tell  them  now,  " 
said  Sally.  "We'll  never  be  able  not 
to,  it  is  too  good  a  story." 

"There  is  one  thing  a  tenderfoot 
can  count  on  in  buying  horses  out 
here.  He  will  get  the  worst  of  it," 
Nimrod  said  consolingly. 

"That's  right,"  and  Bobbie 
fetched  a  deep  sigh — "you  saw  the 
thing  I  was  riding  to-day?  Well, 
that's  my  latest." 

"Go  on,  Bobbie.  It  is  all  in  the 
day's  work. ' '  His  wife's  eyes  twinkled 
sympathetically. 

"  Well,  there  is  a  chap  here  with  the 
most  of  his  palate  gone,  talked  as 
though  he  had  a  hot  potato  in  his 
mouth,  fishy  eyes,  dirty,  lazy,  Dick 
Jones,  he  is  a  duffer." 

"  Katy  is  all  right  for  Pet,  but  the 
'Captain*  Lusk  you  know,  who  owns 
this  lodge,  had  nothing  I  wanted  to 
ride,  so  I  decided  to  send  Jones  to 


Silver  City,  over  the  mountains  by 
a  short  cut,  to  get  me  a  good  saddle 
horse.  He  was  always  mumbling 
what  a  great  judge  of  'hoss  flesh' 
he  was.  His  instructions  were, 
'  easy-gaited,  fast  walker,  plenty 
of  spirit,  but  no  mean  tricks, 
broken  to  game  shooting  from  the 
saddle,  not  particular  as  to  color 
so  long  as  it  be  not  white.'  I 
never  could  endure  a  white  horse. 
The  price  was  to  be  twenty  dollars, 
or  at  most  twenty-five,  and  a  five- 
dollar  bonus  for  going.  As  I  had 
nothing  but  a  hundred- dollar  bill  and 
no  one  here  had  change — I  gave  it  to 
him.  Charley,  our  cook,  was  stand- 
ing near  during  the  transaction. 
He  disappeared  quickly  toward  the 
'bar'  to  get  a  drink  and  thus  forti- 
fied, ejaculated  to  a  group  of  loafers— 
'  Hun' red — Jones — Silver  City — hoss 
—be  goll-darned!' 

"Such  loquacity  for  him  was 
significant  and  I  own  I  had  mis- 
givings, so  I  did  not  bother  Sally 
with  the  details  of  my  little  trans- 
action. " 

"You  said  you  had  sent  him  to 
get  a  horse,  but  I  remember,  it  took 


Dick  four  hours  to  get  himself  out 
of  the  'bar'  and  into  the  saddle," 
put  in  Sally,  "but  at  last  he  rode 
away  down  the  trail,  a  hunched  up 
figure  in  gray  flannel  shirt,  dilapi- 
dated vest  and  trousers,  battered 
hat  and  boots,  with  luggage  to  the 
extent  of  a  coat  and  a  slicker  tied  on 
behind." 

"That  was  Monday,"  continued 
Bobbie;  "I  expected  that  he  would 
return  the  following  evening,  but 
was  not  surprised  that  Tuesday 
night  passed  and  no  sign  of  Dick. 
Wednesday  night  came  and  went. 
On  Thursday  I  mentioned  my  fear 
to  the  boys  that  something  had 
happened  him.  It  was  received  with- 
out concern.  'Oh,  he'll  come  back 
all  right.  He's  got  a  gun.  If  there 
was  anything  wrong  we'd  hear/ 
But  my  conjectures  as  to  what 
might  be  detaining  him  elicited  no 
information. 

"On  Friday,  yesterday,  the  Cap- 
tain, spurred  by  my  suggestion  to 
send  a  search  party  for  the  missing 
Dick,  spoke  out — 

"  'Now  don't  you  worry  about 
Dick  Jones.  He  don't  know  a  horse 


89 


from  a  picket  pin,  and  as  fer  ridin' 
he  couldn't  set  on  the  ground  'thout 
holdin'  onto  the  bushes;  but  he'll 
bring  you  a  hoss  all  right,  an'  he'll 
be  back  to-night  or  to-morrow — 
that  hundred  can't  last  much  longer. 
If  ye  didn't  want  him  to  cut  loose, 
ye  had  no  call  to  give  it  to  him. ' 

' '  Sally  heard  this  speech — and  be- 
haved like  an  angel.  Well,  we  waited 
and  waited,  until  this  morning, 
when  taking  one  of  my  accustomed 
glances  up  the  Silver  City  trail  I 
spied  two  objects  approaching." 

Bobbie  stopped  overcome  by  his 
emotions.  Sally  finished. 

"  A  rusty  bay  on  which  sat  a  man 
in  all  the  glory  of  a  new  ready-made 
suit,  blue-flannel  shirt,  red  necktie, 
new  hat,  new  boots,  from  which 
projected  huge  spurs,  and  behind, 
in  tow,  was — a  gaunt  white  horse. 
White,  my  dears,  white.  With  sag- 
ging head  and  lagging  feet,  Bobbie's 
charger  approached;  with  one  ac- 
cord we  went  into  the  shack,  shut 
the  door,  sat  down  on  the  table 
and  laughed  till  we  were  weak." 

"  You  see  him ! "  exclaimed  Bobbie. 
"He  is  a  broken  down  cavalry  horse 


9° 


— worse    than    being    tossed    in    a 
blanket  trying  to  ride  him. 

"He  couldn't  get  up  a  jump  if  a 
cannon  exploded  over  him.  Dick, 
aggrieved  by  my  lack  of  enthusiasm, 
demonstrated  how  gun-broken  the 
creature  was  by  emptying  his 
revolver,  over,  under,  behind,  and 
in  front  of  him. 

"  'Why  don't  you  try  one  here?' 
I  asked,  putting  a  finger  on  the  ani- 
mal's sunken  temple.  If  you  could 
have  heard  his  unpalated  explana- 
tion of  his  bargain,  'twenty-five 
dollars,  dirt  cheap — finest  hoss  in  the 
mountains,  etc.'  Of  course  the  seven- 
ty was  not  forthcoming.  With  an 
indignant  surprise  he  announced  his 
intention  of  working  it  out.  He 
then  took  his  new  clothes  and  his 
very  seedy  face  into  retirement  to 
sleep  it  off.  Has  not  been  seen 
since." 

"We  have  christened  the  horse, 
'The  Whited  Sepulchre/  But  it  is 
all  right  for  to-morrow,  "  Sally  added 
quickly.  ''Bobbie  discovered  that 
the  Captain  has  some  good  saddle 
horses  up  his  sleeve  for  extra 
stipend." 


Bobbie's  face  lighted  up  with  his 
genial  smile. 

"  Yours,  Mrs.  Nimrod,  is  all  right, 
I'll  warrant.  She  was  offered  to  us 
for  twenty  dollars  by  an  impecunious 
cowboy  who  was  stopping  here  a  day 
or  two.  Kentuck  he  called  her! 
She  is  a  beauty  for  a  mountain  pony, 
slim,  light,  clean  built,  with  chestnut 
coat,  almost  glossy  in  spite  of  no 
grooming,  long  black  mane  and  tail. 
There  must  be  a  good  strain  of  the 
blue  grass  in  her — suppose  that  ac- 
counts for  her  name — and  easy 
gaited,  she  can  go  like  the  wind. 
The  mountain  mixture  makes  her 
tough." 

Nimrod  nodded — "A  thorough- 
bred Kentuck  ian  would  go  to  pieces 
in  these  mountains." 

"Of  course,  couldn't  stand  the 
hills  and  the  altitude.  I  have  ridden 
the  horse  for  a  couple  of  days. 
She  is  great,  a  flyer,  easy  on  the  bit, 
no  tricks,  gentle,  high-strung.  I 
closed  that  bargain  like  a  shot,  and 
afterwards  told  the  chap  he  was 
crazy  for  letting  her  go.  He  was 
mounted  on  a  shabby  cow  pony. 
*  She's  all  the  things  you  say,  and  a 


leetle  more,'  he  said,  'look  out  for 
her,  bein'  a  woman-hoss.'  With  that 
he  rode  away,  a  queer  look  in  his 
face.  I  think  he  had  been  drinking. 
She  is  a  beauty,  and  no  mistake." 


ON  THE  MARCH 

HE  next  morning  we 
were  to  start  at  ten. 
Everybody  had  been  up 
since  daybreak,  trying 
to  reduce  order  from 
•  —^  the  chaotic  scene  in 

front  of  the  lodge. 

It  was  already  eleven  o'clock. 
Sixteen  laden  animals  were  tied  to 
every  convenient  post,  tree  or 
stump,  saddle  horses  with  reins 
trailing — the  Western  horse  is  taught 
to  stand  when  the  reins  are  on  the 
ground — pawed  and  fidgeted.  There 
was  a  certain  glum  feeling  in  the 
air  caused  by  Lusk,  who  secretly 


disapproved  of  taking  women  on 
such  a  rough  trip.  It  more  or  less 
affected  the  other  guides. 

"Captain,  we  must  have  another 
pack-horse.  Have  you  any  left?" 
asked  Nimrod.  Lusk  nodded  and 
disappeared  along  the  path  up 
stream.  Soon  he  returned  with  a 
queer  expression  on  his  face  and  be- 
hind him,  at  the  length  of  a  rope,  was 
a  dusty,  sad-looking  bay  with  a  big 
collar  of  yellow-eyed  daisies  nodding 
their  heads  jauntily  at  every  step. 
The  three  guides  looked  as  though 
they  had  seen  a  banshee.  Nimrod, 
with  that  strained  look  that  comes 
when  one  wants  to  laugh,  pulled 
the  male  Tevis  behind  a  cabin,  while 
Sally,  with  far  too  innocent  a  face, 
looked  on.  I  remembered  that  she 
too  had  gone  along  that  path  shortly 
before. 

"Well,  I'll  be  gashed,"  Sommers 
muttered,  looking  at  the  garland,  as 
he  threw  the  packsaddle  into  place. 
The  bay  laid  back  his  ears. 

"Ornery?"  His  question  was  put 
to  Lusk,  who  nodded  in  the  affirm- 
ative. Charley,  seeing  the  nod,  stood 
ready  to  assist.  Adjusting  the  ropes 


95 


preparatory  to  the  diamond  hitch, 
Lusk  gingerly  keeping  a  sharp  look- 
out for  the  animal's  legs,  ears  and 
eye,  lifted  a  pannier  into  position. 
That  was  the  signal — in  spite  of 
Charley  who  was  trying  to  hold  up 
the  head,  down  it  went,  the  back 
humped  suddenly,  and  Badger  shot 
into  the  air,  landed  stiffly  all  four 
feet  together,  gave  himself  a  shake, 
and  resumed  his  normal  pose  bare 
of  all  encumbrances,  save  the  daisy 
garland  rakishly  cocked  on  one 
ear.  They  felt  it  made  them  ri- 
diculous, yet  not  one  of  the  three 
men  would  deign  to  remove  it; 
hating  the  thing  as  though  each 
nodding  bloom  were  a  viper  ready 
to  attack,  they  ignored  it  elabo- 
rately. Three  times  did  Badger 
buck  off  his  pack  and  each  time 
all  that  remained  from  the  wreck 
was  his  decoration.  It  stuck  to  him 
through  all  his  vicissitudes  like  a  pet 
sin  and  at  last,  when  conquered,  he 
was  guided  into  line,  a  crushed  and 
,  withered  chaplet  still  hung  round  his 
neck,  mocking  reminder  that  there 
were  "women  in  the  outfit."  A 
furtive  wink  at  me  was  the  only 


indication  that  Sally  was 
the  guides'  discomfiture. 

With  the  thudding  of  hoofs  and 
a  cloud  of  dust  the  pack-horses  were 
driven  out  of  the  enclosure.  Nimrod 
took  the  lead,  the  Tevi  and  I  with 
him;  our  horses,  impatient  at  the 
long  delay,  pranced  and  curveted 
under  the  restraining  bit. 

The  pace  must  be  slow;  a  gallop- 
ing pack-horse  soon  loses  his  burden. 
But  the  animals  behaved  well.  They 
all  belonged  to  Lusk's  "bunch," 
and  knew  each  other.  Those  who 
were  chums  got  together,  and  those, 
who  were  fussy  chose  their  favourite 
positions  in  the  train. 

Dear  things,  they  have  their  per- 
sonalities as  well  as  humans  and  I 
soon  made  the  acquaintance  of  some 
of  them.  Daisy,  the  blue-skin  don- 
key, was  second  in  line,  only  the  old 
white  horse,  Billy,  her  favourite, 
in  front.  Sommers,  skilfully  landing 
a  pebble  on  her  as  she  was  breaking 
line  by  trying  to  browse  by  the  way- 
side, called  in  a  tone  of  reproach, 
although  guiltless  of  French:  "Mar- 
guerite, get  out  of  that."  Daisy, 
thus  doubly  admonished,  flirted  her 


tail,  drooped  her  left  ear  rakishly,  and 
returned   to  business.  Daisy   is   the 
morale  of  the  pack-train.  She  knows 
just  how  many  pounds  she  should 
carry  without  bucking  off  her  pack, 
she  can  calculate  to  the  fraction  of  an 
inch  whether  or  not  the  space  be- 
tween two  trees  will  allow  her  pack, 
which  projects  far  beyond  her  sides, 
to   pass.  She   knows   when   on   the 
march   that   she  has  to   attend   to 
business.  She  has  a  genius  for  pick- 
ing out  the  best  trail,  avoiding  bogs, 
logs,  wasps'  nests  and  overhanging 
branches.     She  has  been  known  to 
grope  her  way  across  a  bog  on  a  sunk- 
en, invisible  log.  She  will  allow  no  one 
in  front  of  her  but  a  man  on  horse- 
back or  Billy,  a  rather  stupid  horse 
for  whom  she  has  an  attachment.  She 
carries  the  bottles  and  breakables, 
and  being  a  quick  walker  keeps  Billy 
up  to  his  work;  in  any  other  part  of 
the  line  he  lags  badly,  is  very  lazy 
and   much  given  to  side   nibbling. 
Charcoal,    a   black    horse,    has    de- 
veloped this  trait  into  an  art.  He 
chooses  the  middle  of  the  train,  that 
being  usually  farthest  from  human 
interference,    and    no    matter    how 


high  his  head  is  tied  he  seems  to 
manage  to  feed,  a  fast  walker  and 
cunning,  he  has  been  a  good  saddle 
horse,    until   a   streak   of   outlawry 
reduced  him  to  the  ranks,  and  feed 
he  will,  on  duty  or  not.  He  has  been 
known  to  take  advantage  of  a  hill- 
side or  a  ditch  in  order  to  bring  his 
tied-up   head   within  range   of   the 
grass,  and  a  favourite  trick  to  meet 
the  difficulty  is  lying  down.    He  has 
long  since  demonstrated  that  it  is 
better  to  let  him  have  his  way.  His 
method  is  to  leave  the  line  of  horses, 
all  going  in  single  file,  dash  ahead, 
nibble    by   the    roadside    until    the 
train  catches  up  to  him,  whereupon 
he  will  fall  into  the  vacant  place  that 
he  considers  his.  In  the  timber  he 
behaves   himself,    as   there    are   no 
temptations,  and  many  knocks  and 
falls  have  taught  him  that  it  is  easier 
to  let  someone  else  pick  the  trail  for 
him.  Molly,  the  buckskin,  is  always 
the  last   if  she  can  arrange  it.  In 
her  equine  fashion  she  seems  to  have 
worked  out  the  problem  of  getting 
through    the   march    with    as    little 
trouble  as  possible. 

This  brings  her  next  to  Charley, 


the  cook,  whose  proximity  and 
authority  keep  her  in  the  trail. 
Like  some  humans  she  is  happier 
within  sight  of  the  cross,  and  she 
has  noticed  that  her  companions 
one  and  two  ahead,  get  all  the  ad- 
monishing pebbles.  She  likes  to  have 
Baldy,  a  raw-boned  bay,  in  front  of 
her  in  spite  of  his  unpleasant  posses- 
sion of  a  free-flying  pair  of  heels. 
Resignation  is  her  chief  attribute. 
Baldy,  aside  from,  or  because  of,  the 
above-mentioned  trait,  is  a  pro- 
fessional bucker.  He  always  expects 
to  buck  off  his  pack  once  or  twice 
the  first  morning,  but  after  that  pre- 
liminary flourish  he  behaves  like  a 
gentleman.  Baldy 's  dashing  spirit 
seems  to  captivate  the  ladies,  for 
Maybell  always  struggles  for  the  place 
in  front  of  him  to  secure  the  bitter- 
sweet of  his  friendly  nips  at  tail  and 
flank.  Maybell  is  a  brown  mare  of 
cow-like  disposition  and  structure. 
Upon  her  pot-bellied  frame  no  sad- 
dle will  stick,  and  although  the  poor 
thing  was  cinched  within  an  inch 
of  her  life,  apparently,  so  copious 
were  the  groans  and  wheezings,  a 
cunning  device  of  blowing  herself 


out  enabled  her,  when  the  opera- 
tion was  over,  to  shrink  comfortably 
within  her  girths,  and  soon  the  pack 
would  go  careening  to  one  side,  if  not 
strewn  on  the  ground.  Maybell  on 
this  occasion  reserved  her  contri- 
bution to  the  general  confusion  in- 
cidental to  starting,  until  the  river 
was  reached. 

Nimrod  leading,  Lusk  and  Som- 
rners  in  the  water  guiding,  and 
Charley  bringing  up  the  rear,  the 
horses  were  getting  through  nicely 
when  a  cry  of  "  Maybell! "  turned  all 
eyes  to  the  middle  of  the  stream 
where  the  unfortunate  animal  was 
struggling  in  the  water.  Her  pack 
had  turned  completely  under,  making 
a  resistance  to  the  rushing  current 
up  to  her  withers  too  great  for  May- 
bell  to  withstand.  She  was  swept 
completely  off  her  feet.  I  saw  Som- 
mers  and  Lusk  spur  their  horses  to 
the  rescue.  There  was  a  swirling 
splashing  of  water,  Baldy  and  Molly 
stampeded  and  got  into  deep  water 
where  they  had  to  swim,  the  packs 
getting  soaked,  and  Charley  strug- 
ling  to  lead  them  to  the  bank.  Nim- 
rod directing  me  to  continue  to  lead 


the  train  so  as  to  get  them  all  out 
of  the  stream,  galloped  back,  Bob- 
bie with  him,  to  guide  the  other 
startled  animals  safely  into  the 
shallows. 

Meanwhile  a  skilful  bit  of  work 
was  going  on  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream.  Maybell,  frenzied  and  help- 
less, tied  up  with  loosened  ropes,  was 
kicking  furiously.  Lusk  dexterously 
managed  to  get  a  rope  around  her 
neck  and  fastened  the  other  end  to 
his  pommel,  held  her  head  up,  while 
Sommers  struggled  to  get  near 
enough  to  cut  one  of  the  girths;  all 
three  were  being  swept  down  stream 
by  the  swift  current.  At  last  he 
succeeded,  another  broke,  and  May- 
bell,  partially  released  from  her  bur- 
dens, was  towed  to  shore,  where  by 
this  time  all  the  horses  in  a  dis- 
organised group,  were  awaiting. 

Without  a  word  Lusk  galloped 
down  stream  along  the  bank  keeping 
track  of  the  floating  bundle  until  it 
struck  against  a  boulder  and  lodged 
there.  I  was  much  pleased  to  see  his 
loyal  solicitude  for  our  stuff. 

"It's  his  bedding,  you  know," 
said  Charley  with  a  chuckle.  "He 


knows  better  than  to  put  anything 
else  on  Maybell.  It  will  be  kinder 
moist  for  a  snooze.  There  goes  a 
shoe.  He's  got  it."  In  half  an  hour 
Maybell's  soggy  burden  was  in  place, 
various  cinches  tightened  and  the 
train  again  in  line,  jogging  along 
comfortably  for  the  day  now,  I 
hoped,  at  the  usual  three  miles  an 
hour  gait. 

The  trail  wound  up  an  easy  ascent 
through  pleasant  meadows,  jewelled 
with  dainty  purple  lupin  bloom  and 
the  feathery  red-top,  and,  scattered 
freely  with  great  patches  of  daisies, 
like  Nature's  linen  on  the  grass  to 
bleach:  through  groves  of  aspen 
fluttering  careless  leaves  for  every 
vagrant  zephyr  and  into  the  dark- 
hearted  pines,  mysterious  with  the 
messages  of  the  ages  past,  ere  man 
was  born,  and  the  gods  of  the  grow- 
ing things  trod  their  shaded  aisles. 
The  trail  slipped  under  fallen  forest 
prides,  the  mighty  sticks  that  time 
had  felled  as  easily  as  the  sapling  is 
broken  by  the  wind.  It  leaped  over 
baby  brooks  just  learning  to  run  down 
the  hillside,  and  slipped  from  stone 
to  stone,  to  where  the  torrents  dashed 


along.  It  stopped  at  the  brink  of  a 
canon  and  began  again  on  the  other 
side,  leaving  the  trusting  traveller, 
without  guidance,  to  get  over  the 
chasm  as  best  he  might.  It  grew 
faint  sometimes  and  ran  wild  in  a 
choice  of  ways  whimsically  conceal- 
ing its  direction  so  that  only  the 
skilled  could  follow.  It  forked  with- 
out sign  to  tell  its  bent,  save  a  broken 
twig,  crushed  grass  blade,  or  over- 
turned pebble — frail  witness  for  the 
tenderfoot;  and  at  last  it  left  the 
earth  altogether  and  joined  the  points 
of  the  compass,  the  sun  and  the 
Polar  star. 

Then  "Captain"  took  the  lead; 
he  scanned  the  ascent  sharply 
and  began  to  pick  a  trail  around 
bushes  and  boulders  and  over  the 
crumbling  gravelly  soil.  We  fell  into 
line  plod — plod — plod — the  breathing 
of  horses,  the  creaking  of  leather, 
the  tinkle  of  a  bell  on  Daisy,  the 
rattle  of  tinware  on  Dolly,  plod- 
plod — and  another  table-land  was 
reached.  Through  heavy  timber  now, 
dodging  brambles,  jumping  logs,  on 
and  on,  hour  after  hour;  unable  to 
endure  the  saddle  cramp,  I  was 


•mm 


walking,  panting  and  breathless  with 
exercise  in  that  altitude.  The  blood 
pounded  in  my  head  with  such  a 
noise  that  Sally  caught  an  arm  be- 
fore I  realised  that  she  had  been 
speaking. 

"We  camp  beyond  the  clearing, 
I  rode  on  to  tell  you.  How  do  you 
like  Kentuck?  Katy  appears  to  be 
all  the  Captain  claims  for  her,  steady, 
mountain- wise  and  plenty  of  nerve." 
She  began  to  sing  softly — 

"Sweet  Katy  Conner, 
I  dote  upon  her. 
Kate,  Kate,  my  charming  Kate, 
I  hope  you'll  carry  me, 
Nor  please  don't  take  a  notion 
Of  complicated  motion 
And  fling  my  precious  bonelets 
In  the  branches  of  a  tree." 

What  did  I  think  of  Kentuck? 
There  certainly  was  something  queer 
about  her.  Perhaps  it  was  that  cow- 
boy calling  her  a  "  woman-hoss " 
put  it  into  my  head,  but  only  a  short 
time  ago,  I  had  felt  Kentuck  sud- 
denly getting  ready  to  jump.  I  could 
not  imagine  why.  There  was  a  stick, 
perhaps  two  inches  thick,  lying  in 


the  trail,  but  she  had  gathered  her- 
self together  and  jumped  high  enough 
to  have  cleared  a  three-foot  log.  Be- 
ing unprepared,  I  acquired  a  horrid 
crick  in  the  neck.  Since  then,  how- 
ever, she  had  passed  other  sticks 
and  paid  no  attention  to  them.  I 
decided  a  fly  must  have  stung  her  and 
made  answer— 

"  She  is  a  treasure,  canters  like 
an  automobile  rocking-chair.  Fast 
walker,  too,  which  is  a  comfort  on 
the  march." 

The  trail  had  arrived  and  at  once 
lost  itself  in  a  wide  meadow,  as 
level  and  safe  as  a  boulevard,  not 
even  a  badger  hole  in  sight.  So  we 
broke  into  a  canter — glorious  motion, 
the  air,  sparkling  wine,  when  like  a 
rocket  Kentuck  jumped  in  the  air  and 
stopped  stock  still,  trembling,  all 
four  feet  together.  I  came  down  on 
her  neck,  by  some  wonder  did  not 
go  over,  and  managed  to  work  back 
over  the  pommel  into  the  saddle 
again. 

"  What  on  earth  was  that?"  I  in- 
quired. Sally  looked  worried  and 
said  I  should  be  careful. 

"Of  what?"    I  demanded,  rather 


io6 


nettled.  Considerably  shaken,  we 
proceeded  at  a  walk  to  follow  the 
pack-train,  perhaps  half  a  mile  away, 
when  we  came  to  a  natural  ditch, 
a  crack  in  the  earth  about  four  feet 
wide  and  six  or  seven  feet  deep. 
Katy  was  a  little  ahead.  She  jumped 
across  it,  but  Kentuck,  my  treasure, 
tried  to  step  across,  and  so  down  she 
plunged  into  the  opening  while  I  went 
tumbling,  fortunately,  on  to  the  op- 
posite bank,  it  proved,  as  there  was 
no  room  for  two  in  the  crevice. 

The  mare  was  up  in  an  instant,  I 
took  more  time;  the  ride  was  be- 
coming unpleasurably  full  of  inci- 
dent. The  problem  now  presented 
was  how  to  get  her  out  of  that  crack ! 
The  walls  of  it  were  absolutely 
straight.  Picking  up  the  bridle  with 
a  forked  stick,  I  led  her  several 
hundred  yards  and  then  sat  down. 
Why  try  to  get  her  up?  Why  try 
to  do  anything  but  lie  in  the  lap 
of  my  sorrows?  Meanwhile  Sally's 
signal  of  distress  was  bringing 
Nimrod. 

He  soon  extracted  Kentuck  from 
the  fissure  and  the  symptoms  of 
her  behaviour  from  me. 


THE  RIDE  WAS  BECOMING  UNPLEASURABLY 
FULL  OF  INCIDENT 


"  The  mare  is  locoed,  all  the  symp- 
toms," he  announced. 

"Locoed!"  echoed  Bobbie,  who 
had  arrived  in  time  to  hear  the  tale. 
' '  I  know  what  that  means !  Then  she 
is  really  luny,  sees  things,  a  little 
thing  looks  big,  another  big  thing 
looks  little  at  the  same  time.  They 
say  that  a  horse  or  cow  that  eats  of 
the  loco  weed  never  is  cured.  It's 
like  the  opium  habit  or  '  'hasheesh" 
mighty  uncanny.  They  go  along  for 
days  and  weeks  without  an  attack, 
then  all  of  a  sudden  there's  the  devil 
to  pay."  Bobbie  settled  in  a  heap 
on  his  horse!  His  chagrin  was  so 
obliterating,  it  was  funny.  "Mrs. 
Nimrod  what  do  you  think  of  me! 
I'll  never  buy  another  horse!  You 
are  welcome  to  use  me  for  a  door 
mat!" 

My  feelings  had  sustained  the  prin- 
cipal injury,  so  it  behooved  me  to 
be  magnanimous. 

"Caesar  once  made  a  mistake, 
I  believe." 

I  rode  the  rest  of  the  way  on 
Bobbie's  other  failure,  the  "  Whited 
Sepulchre."  He  insisted  upon  it, 
while  he  walked  behind  leading  Ken- 


no 


tuck,  Kentuck  looking  as  innocent 
as  a  basket  of  figs  in  which  the  viper 
rests.  No  more  with  us,  at  least, 
would  she  toil  or  bear  a  burden. 

"Thus  is  vice  rewarded,"  com- 
mented Sally  when  a  few  moments 
later,  at  camp,  my  saddle  dropped 
from  the  mare  and  she  was  free  to 
roam  the  mountains,  to  seek  her 
favourite  food,  thrive  on  the  lux- 
uriant grass  and  drink  from  the 
clearest  streams.  I  sank  back  into 
the  pine  needles,  a  sweet  sense  of 
ease  after  exertion.  Thrice  welcome 
rest  the  reward  of  a  difficult  day,  and 
lavishly  did  nature  send  her  minions 
to  attend — the  fragrance  of  dead 
pine,  the  fillip  of  ozone,  and  the 
caressing  voices  of  breeze-blown 
leaves. 

Too  soon  the  bustle  of  making 
camp  assailed,  and  determined  not  to 
show  the  white  feather,  I  too,  be- 
came one  of  the  camp  scene.  All 
were  busy.  Nimrod,  in  haste  to  pro- 
vide me  with  comfort,  was  starting 
the  fire.  The  Tevi  were  puzzling  over 
the  raising  of  a  tent,  the  guides  were 
unloading  tired  animals  as  swiftly 
as  possible,  sweated  blankets  were 


taken  from  aching  backs,  hobbles 
snapped  on  forelegs,  and  with  much 
joyous  kicking  of  hind-legs,  frisk- 
ing and  rolling  in  the  dust,  great 
solace  to  an  itching  skin,  the 
'bunch,'  kept  together  by  Daisy's 
bell,  ambled  afield.  Surplus  pro- 
visions were  all  stacked  neatly  in  a 
pile  ready  for  the  morning,  and 
covered  with  canvas  in  case  of 
showers;  provisions  and  utensils 
were  clustered  near  the  cook  fire, 
where  Charley  had  begun  prepara- 
tions for  the  evening  meal  and  be- 
tween times  chopped  wood.  Lusk 
and  Sommers  assisted  in  putting  up 
the  tents,  so  that  we  could  "move 
in, "  rubber  beds  were  blown  up, 
sleeping  beds  placed  on  top,  night 
things  laid  out,  change  of  clothing, 
rubber  tub,  toilet  necessaries  needed 
for  the  morning,  the  candle  lamp, 
and  matches  handy.  In  a  tent  a 
thing  unvailable  is  a  thing  lost. 

We  all  worked.  It  was  good  ex- 
ercise after  long  hours  in  the  saddle 
and  we  knew  well  the  independent 
spirit  of  these  mountaineers.  They 
as  little  expect  to  render  personal 
service  as  the  Secretary  of  a  Company 


expects  to  be  the  body  slave  of  its 
President. 

A  gay  little  offshoot  of  the  rush- 
ing brook  beyond,  babbled  past  our 
tent  door.  Nimrod  was  sketching 
some  great  blue  berries  that  hung 
over  it.  Again  I  flung  myself  on  the 
bank  to  rest  a  "vast  half -hour" 
before  dinner.  How  plentifully  hun- 
ger throws  itself  about  in  this  active 
life! 

"  If  anyone  should  happen  to  take 
a  photograph  of  this  scene  it  would 
meet  with  my  approval,"  said  Nim- 
rod, looking  hard  at  me.  "The  cam- 
era is  on  my  saddle  pommel  over 
there.  You  can  see  I'm  busy."  I 
arose  resignedly;  evidently  no  lotus 
eating  was  to  be  tolerated  in  that 
camp. 

"  'First  one  thing  and  then  an- 
other, always  cheerful  and  busy, 
that's  my  motto,'  said  the  old 
woman  as  she  dug  up  flowers  to  see 
if  they  were  growing.  Nimrod,  will 
you  set  your  hat  back  a  little,  please. 
Sally,  put  down  that  towel,  that's 
a  dear.  Tut,  tut,  Bobbie  Tevis,  I 
suspect  you  of  posing,  you  have  not 
carried  that  gun  all  day  and  there  is 


no    possibility    of    bear    until    to- 
morrow." 

"  It's  Sally's,  I  am  going  to  clean 
it,"  was  the  outraged  rejoinder,  by 
which  the  wise  may  know  to  just 
what  stage  the  "foto"  had  pro- 
gressed. 


VI. 


A   FIRE    RIDE 

N  THE  East  one  may 
have  nothing  more  orig- 
inal than  a  banana  peel 
or  a  railroad  accident 
to  threaten  life,  but  in 
the  Rockies  one  has 
flood,  fire,  cyclone,  quicksand,  bog- 
holes  in  endless  variety,  and  animals 
from  the  fretful  quill-pig  in  his  quills 
to  the  fighting  elk,  equipped  with 
an  arsenal  of  polished  ivory  points. 
It  happened  on  the  Fourth  of  July 
about  an  hour  after  the  usual  caval- 
cade had  strung  out  for  the  day's 
march,  that  we  met  with  an  adven- 


u6 


ture  so  full  of  pyrotechnics  that  it 
seemed  as  though  even  here  must  the 
spirit  of  the  "  signers  "  penetrate.  We 
noticed  a  peculiar  haze  that  grew 
rapidly  denser.  "A  forest  fire  on 
ahead,"  Nimrod  said;  and  soon  we 
saw  before  us  a  great  forest  belt 
where  a  fire  had  been  raging  for  days. 
A  few  forest  rangers  had  been 
struggling  with  it,  but  they  were 
able  only  to  keep  the  greedy  monster 
from  extending  its  sweep  on  each 
side  as  it  ate  its  way  ravenously 
down  the  wind.  The  broad  track  of 
destruction,  two  or  three  miles  wide, 
was  saddening  to  see — tree  trunks 
lying  prostrate  in  a  smoking  mass  of 
children-trees  and  forest  growth,  or 
still  upright,  pointing  charred  and 
maimed  signals  to  heaven.  The  air 
was  grey  with  flying  ashes  and  the 
flames  leaped  and  crackled  as  they 
ran  along  the  ground  through  the 
berry  bushes  and  dead  leaves,  and 
worked  along  the  tree  branches  that 
a  moment  before  had  been  beautiful 
with  life;  changing  all  things,  as  at 
the  blight  of  a  witch's  wand,  from 
a  riot  of  colour,  brilliant  greens, 
browns,  orange  and  scarlet — to 


mourning,  all  the  well-loved  forms  of 
the  forest  shrivelled  and  twisted, 
draped  in  leaden  greys  and  deepest 
black.  What  pain,  what  sorrow, 
what  beauty  spoiled,  what  needless 
waste,  what  visions  of  the  under- 
world laid  bare!  It  might  have  been 
the  enchanted  circle  that  always  in 
Fairyland  protects  the  Beauty  and 
Delight  beyond. 

To  cross  it  was  like  one  of  the 
labours  of  Hercules,  but  there  was 
no  way  around;  either  forward,  or 
retreat.  "Cap'n,"  who  was  leading, 
had  something  of  Napoleon  in  him, 
and  this  was  evidently  not  his  Mos- 
cow. So  into  this  havoc  where  the 
Fire  King  had  passed  but  had  not 
yet  wholly  given  up  his  reign,  we, 
and  the  entire  pack-train,  plunged. 
The  horses  were  kept  on  a  sharp  trot, 
for  the  ground  was  still  scorching 
hot  in  places.  Each  member  of  the 
party,  Sally  and  myself  included, 
took  two  or  three  pack  horses  to 
drive  ahead  to  keep  them  ''pushed 
along  "  better.  The  trail  was  nearly 
obliterated ;  our  course  wound  in  and 
out  trying  to  avoid  obstacles,  old 
and  new.  Suddenly  the  horse  before 


n8 


me  gave  a  great  leap  over  a  burning 
tree  that  had  just  fallen.  I  was 
riding  Katy  that  day.  She  snorted, 
as  well  she  might,  when  she  saw  the 
three  foot  log  with  dancing  flames 
its  entire  length  barring  the  way. 

How  were  we  going  to  get  over 
that  thing  that  seemed  alive  with 
wicked  tongues  darting,  ready  to 
devour?  There  was  no  time  to  be 
lost,  and  Katy  took  a  high  jump  to 
avoid  the  flames,  which,  however, 
must  have  singed  her,  for  she  gave 
a  double  jump  and  a  short  run  upon 
landing  which  was  decidedly  discon- 
certing. But  I  had  not  much  time 
to  think.  There  was  a  shout  ahead, 
a  stampede  of  pack-animals,  and 
another  burning  tree  crashed  across 
my  path.  Falling  trees  were  the 
greatest  danger;  at  any  time  one  of 
us  might  be  felled  to  the  earth. 
Katy  and  I  took  that  tree  at  a  trot, 
and  another  beyond.  It  was  no 
place  to  linger;  the  air  was  electric. 

Weirdly  strange,  yet  not  strange. 
Where  had  I  been  through  all  this 
before?  It  assailed  my  senses  and 
my  memory.  How  familiar  it  seemed 
— the  wonderful  ringing  Wagner 


fire-music  was  in  my  ears — beau- 
tiful, fearful,  spellbinding.  Brun- 
hild was  not  so  much  to  be  pitied 
after  all.  The  intoxication  of  Loki 
was  upon  me. 

And  what  erratic  tricks  he  plays! 
On  my  left  I  noticed  the  skeleton 
form  of  what  had  been  a  raspberry 
bush.  Not  a  leaf  was  left — not  a 
green  bramble,  but  still  in  the  very 
heart  of  it  was  one  ripe,  luscious- 
looking  berry,  hanging  like  a  ruby 
in  the  midst  of  ruin.  How  had  it 
escaped — that  one  touch  of  beauty? 

Near  it  was  another  impish  trick 
of  the  conqueror — a  weird  sight 
indeed.  A  high  white  pine  tree,  so 
tall  that  its  green  branches  waved 
•triumphantly  over  the  torment  below, 
so  sturdy  and  vigorous  that  its 
smooth  bark  had  resisted  the  flames, 
but  alas  of  no  avail.  The  enemy  had 
eaten  into  its  heart;  it  was  enduring 
the  tortures  of  Prometheus.  One 
side  of  its  mighty  base,  five  feet 
through,  had  been  carved  out  as 
neatly  as  though  fashioned  by  man 
for  a  fireplace,  and  here  the  flames 
crackled  merrily,  taking  as  does  the 
vampire,  its  treasure  of  life,  while 


120 


the  green  plumes  waved  far  above, 
as  yet  unconscious  of  their  fate. 

We  had  gone  over  two  miles,  jump- 
ing, dodging,  trotting  and  stumbling, 
throats  and  eyes  smarting  from  the 
smoke  until  the  two  miles  seemed 
twenty,  when  I  saw  that  we  were 
leaving  the  region  of  living  fire  and 
passing  through  a  city  of  the  dead. 
It  had  been  a  forest  of  young  pines 
from  four  to  ten  inches  thick,  but 
now  reduced  to  sorry  plight,  a  be- 
wildering mass  of  charred  sticks 
streaking  upwards  like  accusing  fin- 
gers from  those  in  torment.  In  my 
ignorance  I  was  relieved,  thinking 
we  were  "out  of  the  woods";  but 
this  proved  the  worst  of  all,  for  the 
sticks  toppled  over  without  warning 
— a  breath  of  wind,  the  vibration  of 
the  horses'  feet — and  fell  before  the 
horses,  even  upon  them,  if  they  were 
not  spry — a  ghostly  company,  with- 
out stability,  threatening  injury  at 
every  turn. 

My  clothes  lashed  with  blackened 
branches  had  the  general  appearance 
of  the  zebra's  skin.  Every  separate 
muscle  ached,  my  knees  were  bruised 
from  encounters  with  the  trees  which 


121 


were  very  close  together;  but  so  far 
there  had  been  no  serious  damage 
to  the  outfit. 

At  last  it  was  growing  dark.  I 
had  settled  down  to  a  certain  grim 
endurance,  and  had  treated  my 
nerves  to  a  favourite  tonic  of  which  I 
have  made  mention  before,  that 
"cowards  die  many  times  before 
their  death;  the  valiant  never  taste 
of  death  but  once,"  when  I  heard 
a  shout  ahead  which  I  knew  must 
mean  "Lost  Horse  Creek  and  our 
camping  ground. " 

Instantly  my  thoughts  sped  to 
that  magnificent  place  of  comfort 
— camp — where  hunger  and  thirst 
and  weariness  would  vanish.  The 
picture  was  so  pleasant  that  I 
quite  forgot  the  very  material  part 
of  me  which  just  at  that  moment 
was  in  danger.  But  Katy,  fortun- 
ately, was  not  imaginative,  and  saw 
that  a  six-inch  tree  was  falling 
directly  upon  us.  She  quivered  from 
head  to  foot  and  waited  a  second 
for  the  word  of  command  that  did 
not  come,  then  she  gave  a  great 
bound  and  stopped  so  short  that  I 
nearly  went  on  without  her.  Then 


(  too  saw  the  awful  thing  that  was 
descending  upon  us.  I  jerked  back, 
but  a  near  sapling,  released  by  the 
fall  of  the  parent  tree,  was  also  corn- 
ing down.  We  were  between  the 
two. 

Not  having  a  woodman's  eye  I 
did  not  know  how  they  were  going 
to  fall — did  not  know  which  way  to 
move.  "  When  you  don't  know  what 
to  do,  don't  do  it"  is  a  mountain 
adage.  I  clinched  my  teeth  and 
waited.  There  were  shouts,  but 
meaningless  to  me,  although  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  man's  pale  face.  One 
instant  of  suspense  and  the  big  tree 
crashed  in  front  of  Katy's  nose.  She 
started  back  in  terror  right  in  front 
of  the  falling  sapling.  I  lashed  her 
forward  just  in  time  to  escape,  and 
it  came  shivering  down  on  Katy's 
rump,  nearly  bringing  her  to  the 
ground.  She  recovered  at  once,  and 
wildly  started  to  run. 

As  it  was  impossible  to  run  in 
those  ruins  and  Katy  was  a  moun- 
tain pony  and  knew  it,  she  did  the 
best  she  could  with  a  series  of  jumps 
in  the  down  timber,  the  repetition 
of  which  I  can  very  well  do  without. 


I  felt  like  one  of  the  monkeys  at  the 
circus  that  are  strapped  on  the  pony's 
backs — the  pommel  alone  saved  me 
and  my  self-respect. 

But  we  got  out  without  further 
mishap,  and  after  Katy  had  caught 
up  with  old  Billy,  three  horses  ahead, 
and  told  in  a  neigh  or  two  all 
about  it,  she  carried  my  tired  bones 
to  camp  in  tranquillity. 

Camp!  Oh,  the  sweetness  and 
peace  of  that  nook  in  the  mountain 
meadow,  rich  with  grass  for  the 
horses,  the  snow  peaks  far  above,  the 
right  breeze  blowing,  the  intimate 
little  brook,  fringed  with  willows, 
gurgling  in  front  of  our  tents,  a  grove 
of  great  pines  standing  sentinel,  and 
far  above  the  twinkling  sky  of  night. 

"Alas,  poor  Easterners,  who  wot 
not  of  this  life,"  murmured  Sally, 
after  dinner,  snuggling  luxuriously  on 
a  pile  of  rugs  before  the  camp-fire, 
weary  but  happy. 

"Talk  about  fireworks,"  answered 
Bobbie,  nursing  a  bruised  foot, "  Hoo- 
ray for  a  glorious  Fourth! " 


BEAR  AND   FORBEAR 

E  Bitter  Root  Grizzly 
is  the  toughest  of  bears. 
Every  one  knows  that, 
and  he  lives  in  the 
roughest  country.  In 
fact  life  becomes  gener- 
ally superlative  when  hunting  him. 
One  is  either  going  up,  or  going  down, 
either  travelling  around  boulders, 
which  is  abominable,  or  over  slide 
rock,  which  is  worse.  Nothing  is  level 
nor  easy.  The  mountains  reveal  their 
anatomy  of  rocks  in  the  most  har- 
dened fashion  with  only  here  and 
there  a  patch  of  vegetation,  scrub  oak 
or  stunted  pine  to  cover  them.  A 


126 


pitiless  country  on  horse  and  man, 
only  the  "roachback"  thrives  and 
the  wing-footed  goat. 

For  three  days  on  the  trail  we  had 
climbed  and  panted  and  climbed, 
varied  only  by  a  day's  travel  in  a 
cedar  swamp,  a  fearsome  place  where 
we  were  like  midges  in  a  glue  pot. 
It  took  long  to  forget  the  despair- 
ing struggles  of  our  laden  animals 
as  they  stuck  in  the  mire.  Imagine 
taking  a  pleasure  trip  where  groans 
and  frightened  horse  squeals  and 
visions  of  broken  legs  and  necks 
danced  in  the  air,  when  to  stay 
mounted  was  one's  only  safety. 
Jerk,  your  horse  misses  footing  on 
a  comparatively  firm  tussock  and 
flounders  fetlock,  knee,  shoulder 
deep,  plunging,  rearing,  squealing, 
jump,  jerk,  down — nose  in  the  mire; 
up,  at  last  something  firmer,  a  clump 
of  willow  roots  for  forefeet,  a  tre- 
mendous bound — you  on  top  all  the 
time,  and  the  hind  ones  are  out,  all 
four  hoofs  in  a  foot's  space.  An  in- 
stant for  breath,  but  the  footing  too 
frail  for  such  weight,  again  you 
plunge  in,  dodging  the  low,  snarled 
branches  so  heavily  interlaced  above 


that  at  midday  one  travels  in  gloom; 
protecting  one's  knees  from  the  army 
of  trunks,  getting  out  of  the  way  of 
Daisy  and  Billy,  worse  off  than  you— 
and  this  going  on  for  hours. 

Ever  we  were  toiling  up,  scaling 
bald  ridges  that  left  no  cover  for  the 
imagination,  mile  after  mile  of  chasm 
and  rock  showed  death  waiting  but 
for  an  instant  loss  of  poise,  a  single 
misstep  of  a  horse. 

Oh,  we  had  not  lacked  incident, 
and  now  we  were  enjoying  the  hiatus 
of  some  sweetly  dull  days  in  camp — 
a  tiny  strip  of  green,  scant  pasture  for 
the  horses,  having  called  a  halt.  Un- 
compromisingly rose  the  rocky  cliffs 
above,  beside,  beyond  us. 

Bobbie  Tevis  was  fishing  in  the 
inevitably  nearby  stream. 

I  never  could  understand  the 
fascination  of  holding  an  end  of  a  stick 
while  a  foolish  bit  of  string  soaked 
in  the  water,  but  for  Bobbie  it  has 
volumes  of  interest.  The  stick  is 
glorified  into  a  rod  that  cost  a 
month's  wage  for  a  labouring  man, 
and  the  paraphernalia  of  hooks,  reels 
and  flies  takes  more  thought  than  my 
winter's  wardrobe.  Fortunately  the 


128 


mountain  trout  are  delicious.  Sally 
was  lazily  putting  on  rubber  boots 
preparatory  to  joining  her  liege. 
Nimrod  was  sketching  the  home  of 
some  calling-hares  on  a  big  landslide 
back  of  the  camp. 

The  Pika  are  curious  little  creatures 
who  store  up  their  hay  and  winter 
supplies  in  the  crevices  of  the  rocks. 
When  they  are  not  disturbed  they 
come  out  of  their  holes  and  sit  in 
front  sunning  themselves  and  making 
little  noises  to  each  other,  like  a  lot 
of  Chicagoans  on  their  doorsteps  on 
a  summer  evening.  They  carry  an 
astounding  amount  of  stuff  in  great 
mouthfuls.  I  was  ostensibly  watch- 
ing the  cook  jerk  some  venison  which 
was  hung  on  a  forked  stick  in  an 
improvised  smoke-house  of  willow 
shoots;  but  the  pungent  smoke  from 
the  smouldering  willow  in  no  way 
disturbed  my  real  occupation  of  being 
thoroughly,  blissfully  lazy.  There  was 
need  to  be,  for  soon  we  were  to  start 
on  a  bear  hunt  and  this  country  is 
like  an  untrained  guest,  it  is  so 
unaccountable  and  demands  so  much 
energy. 

The   party   separated   about    ten 


129 1 


o'clock.  We  wanted  to  be  up  in  the 
likeliest  place  for  bear  in  the  late 
afternoon  and  it  takes  all  day  to  get 
anywhere,  for  most  of  the  travel, 
over  merciless  rocky  steeps,  has  to 
be  done  on  foot.  Sally  and  I  can  go 
anywhere  a  horse  can  go,  but  the 
necessity  for  personal  locomotion  im- 
mediately puts  us  at  a  disadvantage. 

Nimrod  and  I  took  Sommers  and 
started  off  westerly.  The  Tevi  and 
five  guns  of  various  makes  and  sizes 
(Bobbie  believed  in  being  ready  for 
all  emergencies)  went  with  Lusk  in 
the  other  direction.  Of  their  luck 
Sally  told  at  the  campfire  later — 
much  later. 

They  did  much  hard  travelling  but 
saw  nothing  except  a  martin  sitting 
in  a  black  ball  up  a  tree.  About  four 
o'clock  afar  off  they  heard  shots  and 
thought  we  must  be  firing,  as  there 
was  no  one  else  in  the  mountains. 

"  Should  judge  that  was  about  two 
ridges  over,  wouldn't  you?  Wonder 
what  they  have  struck?"  Lusk  said. 
"  Two  shots,  that  will  hardly  be  a 
a  bear." 

"  Now  keep  a  sharp  look  out,  Pet," 
Bobbie  called  excitedly,"  that  may 


130 


scare  something  our  way.  Gee,  I 
would  like  to  get  a  chance — just  a 
chance."  Poor  Bobbie  with  his  Win- 
chester, his  Savage,  his  Mauser  and 
not  so  much  as  a  whisk  of  a  tail  had 
he  seen. 

"  Better  luck  to-morrow,  sure  to 
see  'em  soon,"  Lusk  encouraged. 

"  Sh!  Wasn't  that  something  mov- 
ing on  that  far  ridge  below?"  Bobbie 
got  out  his  glasses.  "Yes,  by  jingo, 
it's  a  bear  feeding  on  the  blueberries. 
Say,  that's  great!  Look  at  the  way 
he  stows  those  berries;  puts  his  arm 
round  a  bush,  and  just  shovels  them 
in  with  his  tongue,"  he  handed  the 
glasses  to  Sally. 

"  I  believe  I'll  try  a  shot,  anyway— 
what  do  you  say,  Cap'n? " 

"No  use,  too  far.  We  must  get 
nearer.  We  better  go  down  on  the 
other  side  of  the  ridge  and  come  up 
behind  him,  providing  he  don't  get 
frightened  and  travel." 

This  is  Sally's  excited  narrative 
unadorned: 

"If  I  live  to  be  a  hundred  and 
fifty,  I  shall  never  see  a  day  like  this 
again.  You  know  how  awfully  rough 
it  is  getting  about.  It  really  is  no 


horse  country  and  not  fit  for  humans 
to  travel  in.  We  left  our  horses 
about  noon.  We  had  been  off  them 
most  of  the  time,  anyway,  and  soon 
after  we  heard  the  shots,  we  saw  two 
bears  feeding  on  the  mountain  side 
about  a  mile  away.  In  order  to  ap- 
proach them  we  had  to  climb  back 
on  the  ridge  we  had  just  left.  We 
had  trailed  for  an  hour — my  gun 
weighed  over  three  hundred  pounds 
by  then,  and  the  thing  I  breathe  with 
had  struck  work,  only  got  a  good 
breath  about  one  in  twenty — when 
we  sneaked  out  of  cover  and  saw  that 
the  bears  had  hardly  moved.  It  was 
a  long  shot,  good  three  hundred  yards, 
but  Bobbie  was  not  doing  much 
better  in  the  way  of  lungs,  and  he 
decided  to  risk  the  shot.  The  bullet 
struck  one  of  the  bears,  and  both  of 
them  sought  the  bushes.  Bobbie  got 
another  shot  into  the  wounded  one, 
I  think,  before  it  dropped.  Of  course 
we  started  pell  mell  in  pursuit.  We 
slipped  and  fell  and  tore  our  hands 
and  '  barked '  our  shins  until  we  were 
about  half  way  down  the  mountain 
where  there  was  a  little  level  place. 
That  was  my  limit.  Go  further  with- 


out  rest,  I  could  not.  I  hated  dread- 
fully to  be  left,  but  of  course  Bobbie 
had  to  follow  his  bear  and  Cap'n's 
duty  was  with  Bobbie.  I  couldn't 
think  of  letting  him  go  alone,  besides 
I  could  not  endure  the  thought  of 
that  poor  brute  suffering.  But  when  I 
saw  them  actually  going  off  I  found 
I  had  more  strength  than  courage 
and  toddled  after  them.  Fortunately 
we  found  him  within  a  hundred 
yards — and  it  was  soon  over." 

Dear,  enthusiastic,  kind-hearted 
Bobbie,  the  role  of  conquering  hero 
suited  him  so  well,  who  will  begrudge 
him  that  one  trophy,  meaning  as  it 
did  the  lure  by  which  he  gained  rich 
treasure  of  renewed  health  and 
energy  for  the  affairs  that  make  the 
world  go  round? 

But  my  tale  was  different  and  was 
not  told  that  night. 

Till  noon  Nimrod  and  I  had 
climbed  skilfully,  managing  to  keep 
in  the  wooded  torrent  courses  and 
thus  use  the  horses.  But  now  we 
were  obliged  to  tie  them  and  proceed 
on  foot.  No  more  the  majestic  yel- 
low pine,  the  odorous  balsam  and 
spruce  tempered  the  sun's  rays. 


Again  the  superlative,  the  hottest 
noons,  the  coldest  nights,  are  here. 
No  more  would  the  yew  bedeck  its 
lateral  branches  with  scarlet  waxen 
berries,  nor  some  blue-eyed  myrtle- 
covered  mound  invite  repose.  No 
more  would  the  delighted  eye  rest 
on  orange  scarlet  beads,  set  in  their 
heavy,  yellow-ribbed  leaves,  nor  the 
tropical  blue  ball  that  its  long  point- 
ed lily  leaves  reveal;  the  flaming  rose 
hips  no  more,  nor  the  elder,  nor  the 
Oregon  grape  would  hang  its  tiny  pur- 
ple clusters  amid  the  leafy  reds  and 
yellows;  no  more  the  great,  indigo 
fruit  of  the  sarvis  and  the  huckle- 
berry, no  more  all  the  colourful 
growing  things.  Instead  are  rocks, 
rocks  smooth,  rocks  rough,  rocks 
big — whole  ledges  and  mountains  of 
them — rocks  small  as  sifted  gravel, 
the  track  of  a  snow  slide. 

For  hours  we  toiled,  heels  often 
higher  than  head,  until  rebellion 
shrieked  from  every  muscle.  Three 
thousand  feet  up  one  obelisk,  as 
many  down,  uncounted  stretches  on 
the  ridges,  up  and  down,  rocks,  rocks, 
not  a  patch  of  green  level  or  large 
enough  for  a  grave. 


134 


Toward  sundown,  gasping  as  we 
had  done  many  times  before,  we 
dropped  on  a  far  outjutting  ledge 
that  split  the  heavens.  Half  of  the 
whole  wide  earth  seemed  spread 
before  us,  valley  after  valley, 
range  upon  range  waved  away  in 
purple  shadows  to  the  borderland 
of  spirit.  The  mountain  chill  gathered 
as  we  looked  and  the  warmth  was 
frozen  out  of  the  sky.  It  was  over  time 
to  be  getting  back  to  camp.  My  face 
and  hands  were  scratched,  shoes  in 
ribbons,  feet  like  boils,  in  fact  not  a 
spot  worth  mentioning  without  its 
scratch  or  bruise.  There  was  small 
chance  of  my  making  camp  that  night 
if  it  had  to  be  done  on  foot.  This  was 
not  hunting.  It  was  suicide. 

Nimrod  sent  Sommers  after  the 
horses,  which  he  judged  were  not 
more  than  a  mile  away,  and  designated 
a  spot  at  the  foot  of  the  ridge  where 
we  would  wait.  A  stream  flowed 
through  it,  bordered  by  the  usual 
strip  of  woods  and  we  could  see  dimly 
a  bald  place  which  meant  a  tiny 
meadow,  perhaps  an  acre  in  extent. 

Sommers  started  off.  All  very  well, 
but  how  was  I  to  get  there,  or  any- 


i  IS 


where  ?  The  limit  of  endurance  had 
been  reached  long  ago.  But  when 
endurance  gives  out  one  still  has  the 
will  and  slowly  I  crawled  and  stum- 
bled along.  There  was  yet  plenty  of 
half-light  and  as  soon  as  we  reached 
the  timber  Nimrod  saw  many  tracks 
of  wild  things.  He  could  examine 
them  at  his  leisure,  as  a  five  minutes' 
scramble  meant  a  ten  minutes'  halt 
for  me.  Fortunately  it  was  down 
hill,  one  could  slide  part  of  the  time. 
What  did  a  bruise  or  two  more  mat- 
ter? Nimrod  pointed  out  many  rotten 
logs  torn  open  by  the  paws  of  hungry 
black  bears  and  grizzlies,  seeking 
for  their  favourite  summer  relish, 
wood  ants.  He  followed  the  fresh 
track  of  a  mountain  lion  that  was 
stalking  a  black  tail.  He  showed 
where  the  doe  had  "stopped  to  feed, 
had  taken  alarm  and  bounded  off. 
There  were  moose,  lynx,  yes,  and 
elk  and  wolf  tracks.  This  wooded, 
watered  spot  was  evidently  a  favour- 
ite resort.  It  was  uncanny  in  the 
deepening  gloom  to  feel  that  the 
woods  about  were  full  of  eyes  and 
noses  and  claws  and  jaws. 

At  last,    after    infinite  weariness, 


through  branches  and  brambles  and 
logs  we  reached  the  stream.  Of 
course,  the  little  meadow  of  rank 
grass  was  on  the  opposite  side.  We 
crossed  over  on  the  rocks — more 
rocks,  I  had  hoped  to  have  seen  the 
last  of  them.  The  inevitable  slip 
occurred  midstream  and  Nimrod 
fished  me  out,  wet  to  the  waist. 

It  was  only  one  thing  more.  He 
made  a  tiny  fire,  Indian  fashion. 
"Fool  white  man  makes  heap  fire 
and  gets  away,  Indian  make  little 
fire,  stays  close,"  and  then  proposed 
that  he  should  leave  me. 

Does  that  strike  a  chill  down  your 
spine  ?  No  ?  Then  you  are  not  a 
woman,  or  have  no  imagination  of 
how  it  feels  to  be  left  alone  at  dusk 
in  the  wilderness,  untracked  save  by 
wolves  and  lions  and  bears  and  other 
"ravening  monsters  seeking  whom 
they  may  devour." 

Sommers  should  have  arrived  long 
before,  something  had  undoubtedly 
happened  to  detain  him.  Just  then 
we  heard  the  sound  of  a  distant  shot, 
Sommers  signalling  for  help.  Nimrod 
must  go.  There  was  no  alternative. 

"I'll  be  back  as  soon  as  possible 


with  the  horses,"  he  said.  "Fire 
one  shot  for  answer."  I  did  so,  as 
he  hastily  collected  some  sticks  for 
the  fire  and  placing  them  beside  me, 
ran  off  in  the  direction  from  which 
the  shot  came.  I  could  see  his  form, 
black  in  the  drab  light,  bobbing  over 
the  uneven  meadow  and  disappearing 
into  the  woods.  He  was  gone — and 
gone  were  all  things  comfortable  and 
understood.  I  was  marooned  in  the 
unknown.  Can  you  feel  the  creepi- 
ness  of  it  ? 

Nimrod  had  cleared  a  six-foot  space 
in  the  tall  marsh  grass.  I  could  not 
see  above  it  as  I  crouched  beside  the 
fire  that  gave  forth  scarcely  notice- 
able light  or  smoke — or  heat  either. 
How  chilly  it  grew,  how  dark,  how 
awfully  silent!  It  was  the  silence  of 
the  tomb  and  I  was  afraid,  exquisitely 
afraid,  of — nothing. 

But  my  imagination  soon  found 
plenty  of  food.  Sommers  had  been 
thrown  and  injured.  Nimrod  would 
never  find  him  or  he  would  break 
a  leg  in  the  dark  and  perish  miserably 
from  exposure.  I  would  never  see 
him  again  or  any  one.  Some  day 
strangers  would  find  my  bones  and 


identify  me  by  a  hat  pin,  no,  my 
belt-buckle,  unless  the  packrats 
carried  it  off.  Here  I  would  lie  as 
uncounted  as  the  salmon  skeletons 
that  strewed  the  bank,  worthless  re- 
mains of  a  bears'  banquet. 

I  put  a  stick  in  the  fire.  It  re- 
verberated to  China.  I  knew  then 
the  stillness  and  greyness  that  was 
before  the  Creation.  I  had  lived  cycles 
since  Nimrod  left,  taking  reality 
with  him. 

I  started  up,  anything  would  be 
better  than  this.  It  was  worse  stand- 
ing. I  crouched  again  for  a  few  more 
aeons,  straining  every  nerve  to  hear 
some  sound  of  returning  humanity. 
I  could  have  heard  a  hair  drop;  then 
I  did  hear  a  sound  as  of  a  low  body 
going  through  the  grass,  not  twenty 
feet  away.  I  froze  with  a  vast  new 
kind  of  terror,  but  it  was  a  better 
brand  than  the  last.  Here  at  least 
might  be  action,  and  it  was  real,  un- 
mistakable. There  again  that  low 
rustle  coming.  A  mountain  lion! 

A  twig  snapped.  No,  it  made  too 
much  noise,  a  faint  swish,  a  very 
faint  thud,  thud,  it  had  passed  me 
and  was  going  to  the  water.  I  heard 


it  pause  and  then  the  sound  of  an 
animal  drinking.  It  was  certainly  a 
bear,  nothing  else  makes  so  much 
noise. 

I  stood  up,  and  not  forty  feet 
away  was  a  Grizzly,  his  back  to- 
ward me.  He  looked  as  big  as  an 
ox.  My  eyes,  accustomed  to  the 
twilight,  took  in  every  detail — the 
gleam  of  his  eye  as  his  head  turned, 
the  slobber,  slobber  of  his  jaws  as  his 
deft  paw  raked  into  them  some 
blueberries  from  the  bank. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  stood 
there  staring  at  him,  absolutely 
motionless,  but  I  know  how  a  prisoner 
feels  when  waiting  for  the  hangman. 
Then  I  began  to  think  again. 

Here  was  the  chance  to  distinguish 
myself.  Never  was  a  stage  set  more 
dramatically.  How  the  glory  of  it 
would  ring  down  through  the  family 
annals,  unaided,  hand  to  hand,  so 
to  speak,  encounter  of  a  monster  and 
the  wonderful  heroism  of  the  woman, 
etc.  Could  I  do  it  ?  for  the  sake  of  my 
descendants.  I  must  try.  My  nerves 
were  twitching  like  a  frog's  when 
the  electrical  current  is  turned  on. 
Hardly  able  to  control  them  enough, 


140 


I  reached  cautiously  for  the  gun, 
raised  it  as  best  I  could — how  the 
thing  wabbled  and  danced  and 
circled. 

The  long  day's  strain  had  told,  but, 
with  a  final  supreme  effort  of  will,  I 
got  it  to  my  shoulder  and  fired. 
Then  shut  my  eyes  for  an  instant 
expecting  the  creature  to  seize  me 
and  devour. 

Nothing  happened !  I  do  not 
believe  I  aimed,  I  never  knew. 
The  bear  turned  and  started  back 
toward  me  the  way  he  had  come, 
evidently  on  a  runway,  he  looked  as 
big  as  an  elephant;  already  another 
cartridge  was  jerked  in.  I  was  calm 
now,  I  had  done  it  and  must  fight. 
If  he  were  wounded  I  knew  there 
would  be  no  quarter.  I  had  the  gun 
at  shoulder  and  then  for  the  first 
time  the  creature,  who  was  now  a 
mastodon,  saw  me.  Its  little  eyes 
glared  straight  at  me.  I  shall  never 
forget  them,  and  there  we  stood, 
transfixed. 

For  the  fraction  of  a  second  he 
debated  what  to  do  and  then  turned 
slowly  away.  Now  was  the  moment. 
There  would  have  been  no  miss  this 


I  LOWERED  THE  GUN  AND  LET  HIM  GO 


time.  A  hunter  knows  when  he  will 
shoot  true.  I  sighted  along  the 
barrel,  a  clear  shot  to  the  brain — it 
was  so  close — my  finger  on  the 
trigger!  Then  I  lowered  the  muzzle 
to  the  ground — and  let  him  go.  He 
had  refused  to  injure  me!  Could  I 
do  less  ? 

I  watched  him  going  off  in  the 
woods  and  sat  down  again  amid  the 
silence  and  the  bears. 

My  one  shot  soon  brought  an  an- 
swer, quite  close,  and  had  been  most 
fortunate,  for  in  the  dark  Nimrod  had 
somewhat  strayed.  He  found  Som- 
mers  in  a  plight  with  three  horses 
in  a  bog.  At  ten  o'clock  we  got  to 
camp — what  few  shreds  were  left 
of  us — and  heard  the  triumphant 
tale  of  the  Tevi. 

Bear  and  forbear;  water  and  oil. 
Clearly,  my  story  could  not  then 
be  told. 


VIII. 

WHAT   I    KNOW    ABOUT    MOUNTAIN 
GOATS — BOBBIE'S  STORY 


]F  Dante  had  ever  hunted 
mountain  goats,  the 
world  would  have  been 
richer  by  another  canto 
of  the  Inferno.  What 
an  opportunity  lost  for 
those  humorous  gentlemen  of  the 
Inquisition  and  the  Star  Chamber: 
But  this  is  the  age  of  discovery. 

No  golden  depas,  alas!  stood  ready 
to  offer  libations  to  the  victory- 
crowned  when  after  the  hardest 
hunt  that  imagination  can  picture, 
we  returned  to  camp  empty-handed; 
yet  were  we  satisfied.  Goats  we 


had  seen,  yes,  three,  and  one  we 
actually  handled.  This  at  least  has 
the  merit  of  orginality.  I  like  to 
think  of  it.  Instead  of  taking,  we 
gave  life  and  received  the  usual 
benefactor's  reward.  It  happened 
this  way: 

For  two  nights  Nimrod  and  I 
with  Sommers  had  made  a  temporary 
camp  in  goat  country.  The  wind 
blew,  the  snow  descended,  the  streams 
glazed  over,  we  fed  on  bacon  and 
camp  "sinkers"  and  had  only  a  six- 
foot  lean-to  tent,  eked  out  by  boughs, 
to  cover  our  beds.  We  had  left 
everything  in  the  main  camp  that 
we  could  possibly  do  without.  Con- 
ditions could  hardly  be  described 
as  comfortable.  I  had  thought  rocks 
in  themselves  were  bad  enough,  but 
ice-covered  rocks — well,  never  mind. 

The  first  night  we  lingered  around 
the  blessed  fire,  dreading  the  plunge 
into  arctic  darkness  where  our  snow- 
covered  beds  gave  chill  greeting. 
The  wind  had  changed  after  the 
lean-to  was  set  up  and  before  its 
tricks  were  discovered  had  sent  the 
prying  snow  into  every  corner  of 
our  shelter, 


Nimrod  was  discoursing  learnedly 
upon  the  animal  whose  tracks  we 
had  seen  that  day.  I  like  to  get 
my  Natural  History  by  object  les- 
sons, when  in  Goat-land  learn  about 
goats. 

"The  Oreamnos  montanus  harms 
no  one.  He  is  a  browser,  and  finds 
his  food  chiefly  in  the  buds  and 
twigs  of  the  trees  that  creep  up  to 
his  fastnesses.  Such  patches  of  for- 
est like  this  are  all  through  his 
range  and  it's  here  that  you'll  find 
him,  between  the  timber  line  and 
the  snowfields,  which  are  his  water 
supply."  Nimrod  tilted  his  hat  still 
further  on  one  side  to  shield  his  face 
from  the  driving  snow. 

"The  goat  clings  to  his  habitat, 
and  he  is  not  a  very  migratory  ani- 
mal. The  individual  range  is  rather 
small  if  food  and  water  be  obtainable 
and  no  alarming  smells  assail  his 
guide;  but  they  sometimes  swim 
rivers,  and  a  salt  lick  is  a  delicacy 
for  which  they  will  risk  a  short 
sally  from  their  fortress  homes.  You 
do  not  know  of  any  about  here,  do 
you,  Snmmers?" 

Sommers  shook  his  head. 


"Do  goats  ever  make  mistakes  ?" 
I  asked. 

"  I  suppose  so.  He  thrives  among 
cliffs  that  to  us  are  impassable  and 
his  strength  is  wonderful,  but  I 
fancy  now  and  then  one  gets  in 
a  tight  place  from  which  there  is 
no  retreat,  and  there  must  be 
accidents.  They  have  a  habit  of 
grazing  on  the  mountain  sides  where 
the  grass  first  appears,  the  only 
grazing  they  do,  beyond  nibbling 
on  small  plants,  and  this  habit 
perhaps  is  the  cause  of  more  mortal- 
ity than  any  other,  as  many  are 
killed  each  spring  by  snowslides." 

11 1  once  saw  a  goat  that  had  made 
a  mistake,"  said  Sommers  in  his 
slow  drawl,  following  up  Nimrod's 
bait.  He  threw  a  stick  of  wood  on 
the  fire  while  we  waited. 

"They  are  so  plumb  sure  of  them- 
selves, they  go  anywhere.  This  one 
had  walked  out  on  a  pine  tree  stuck 
out  from  a  cliff  like  that"  (holding 
a  forefinger  out  level  from  his 
hand).  "The  trunk  was  covered 
with  snow  and  patches  of  ice  and 
at  the  far  end  hung  some  moss. 
He  went  out  all  right  to  get  it,  but 


going  back  was  not  so  easy,  even 
for  a  Billy;  he  slipped  and  got 
caught  in  a  crotch  and  that's  where 
I  found  him  stuck  fast  and  frozen, 
perhaps  a  month  after. 

"But  it  ain't  usual.  You  can't 
never  hurry  a  goat;  you  can  pepper 
the  ground  about  with  shot,  you 
can  yell  even,  but  you  can't  make 
him  go  faster  than  is  safe.  He  puts 
every  foot  where  it  ought  to  go." 

That  night  I  dreamed  of  the  goat 
that  had  made  a  mistake,  suspended 
in  mid-air,  starving  and  freezing 
to  death;  and  the  next  day  we  found 
another  foolish  goat.  But  it  was 
a  young  one,  and  youth  is  the  age 
for  error. 

About  noon  we  came  to  a  stretch 
of  glare  ice,  over  which  we  were 
proceeding  with  great  caution,  Som- 
mers  in  the  lead  testing  carefully, 
for  death  lays  its  traps  here  in  the 
shape  of  pits  where  the  snow  has 
melted,  but  the  thin,  surface  cover- 
ing remains,  presenting  to  the  careless 
foot  as  solid  a  surface  as  the  ad- 
jacent rock.  We  were  crawling 
along  this  when  a  certain  sound 
instantly  stopped  our  progress.  It 


was    a    faint    bleat, 
goat. 

We  soon  discovered  that  a  kid  of 
the  year  had  fallen  prisoner  into  one 
of  these  pits.  How  long  ago  we  could 
not  tell,  but  it  was  still  alive.  We 
set  about  effecting  a  rescue.  Som- 
mers  cautiously  lowered  himself  into 
the  basin,  whereupon  that  ungrate- 
ful Billy  chased  him  all  around  the 
hole,  doing  as  much  damage  to  shins 
and  temper  as  his  strength  would 
permit  until  Sommers,  using  his  belt 
as  a  collar,  hauled  the  kicking,  strug- 
gling beast  to  the  edge  where  Nimrod 
was  waiting  to  assist  in  getting  him 
up.  Never  was  a  rescue  more  un- 
poetically  performed  and  when  in 
spite  of  himself  the  goat  was  landed 
safely  on  top,  he  returned  thanks 
by  drawing  off  and  making  so  vicious 
a  charge,  his  head  with  its  little 
nubbins  of  horns  well  down,  that 
Nimrod  was  knocked  completely  off 
his  feet,  and  having  thus  laid  low 
his  benefactor  the  vindictive  one 
took  himself  off  over  the  ice  with 
astonishing  rapidity. 

Watching  his  easy  progress  I 
wished  for  some  of  the  rubber  corns 


THAT  UNGRATEFUL  BILLY  STRAIGHTWAY  MADE  A  VICIOUS 
CHARGE  AT  HIS  BENEFACTOR 


with  which  his  feet  are  provided, 
for  mine  showed  a  determined  pro- 
pensity to  seek  the  dull  grey 
sky. 

Enough  is  as  good  as  more,  some- 
times much  better.  We  struck  out 
for  the  main  camp  next  day,  not 
loth  to  leave  to  the  mountain  goats, 
to  the  Excelsior  youth,  or  any  one 
else,  this  region  of  "snow  and 


ice." 


Again  we  found  the  sun,  the 
huckleberries,  camp  comforts  and 
Sally  Tevis,  all  very  delightful; 
and  about  midnight,  appeared 
a  human  wreck  that  had  to 
be  pulled  off  its  horse  and 
assisted  to  the  fire — Bobbie  Te- 
vis, bursting  with  the  story  of 
"his  goat." 

It  took  us  far  into  the  night  to  get 
it  all,  but  what  matter?  Even  then 
it  was  much  easier  told  than  done. 
Bobbie  plunged  into  his  narrative 
as  soon  as  hot  coffee  had  thawed 
his  tongue. 

"As  you  know,  children,  I  desired 
goat  more  than  righteousness;  Sally 
was  knocked  out." 

That  lady  interrupted: 


"I  wish  I  were  a  Mountain  Goat, 

I'd  drink  the  glorious  view; 
And  gladly  skip  from  jag  to  jag; 
Would  you?  would  you?" 

Humming  the  paraphrase  before  she 
could  be  suppressed.  Sally  had 
chosen  to  be  flippant  over  goat, 
and  for  once  had  insisted  upon  re- 
maining in  the  main  camp. 

"Cap'n  and  I  started  yesterday 
at  daybreak,  expecting  to  be  back 
last  night.  I  knew  Pet  would  be 
all  right  during  the  day,  with  Charley 
to  look  after  her.  After  riding  sev- 
eral hours  we  left  our  horses  picketed 
in  a  meadow  and  proceeded  on  foot 
with  a  light  back  pack.  If  one  could 
only  hunt  goats  on  a  horse!  Well, 
we  had  climbed  and  slipped  and 
stumbled  over  boulders,  up  preci- 
pices and  slide  rocks  all  day.  I 
think  I  had  never  known  anything 
like  the  ache  of  bones  and  general 
exhaustion,  feet  giving  out,  skin  off 
the  heels,  left  one  crushed  by  a 
falling  rock.  The  altitude  bothered 
immensely,  could  hardly  breathe  go- 
ing up  hill,  and  it  was  all  up  or  down, 
principally  up — all  this  and  not  a 
sight  of  game.  We  had  followed 


the  track  of  a  big  Billy  only  to  have 
it  apparently  fall  off  the  cliff;  you 
know  a  goat  would  rather  walk  on 
the  under  side  of  a  ledge  any  day. 

"Cap'n  wanted  to  make  a  detour 
of  a  half  mile  and  come  up  under 
the  cliff.  It  sounds  easy  but  it 
would  have  taken  us  at  least  two 
hours  to  do  it  and  hard  work  at 
every  step,  jumping  from  rock  to 
rock,  crawling  along  narrow  ledges 
and  dropping  to  the  next  below. 
A  slip  may  mean  a  broken  leg  or 
worse;  it's  no  place  for  clumsy,  two- 
legged  creatures,  and — I  was  so 
tired,  even  then  in  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon,  that  nothing  but  pride 
kept  me  from  dropping  in  my  tracks. 
Cap'n  was  done  up  too,  I  know, 
because  whenever  I  called  a  halt 
for  a  few  minutes  to  get  wind  he 
sat  down — never  knew  him  to  do  that 
before  when  on  the  trail.  I  believe 
he  is  like  a  horse,  can  go  to  sleep 
standing,  and  once  he  slipped  out 
of  his  pack. 

"Well,  chance  favoured  us.  We 
had  not  dragged  ourselves  along  the 
ridge  two  hundred  yards  when  I 
spied  another  track  and  we  both 


decided  that  the  same  Billy  had 
made  it,  and  a  big  fellow  he  must 
be.  We  worked  on  that  trail  for 
hours  until  it  got  too  dark  and  I 
could  not  have  gone  another  step 
anyway.  To  get  back  to  camp  was 
beyond  me.  There  was  not  a  sin- 
gle foot  of  level  ground,  to  say 
nothing  about  a  place  big  enough 
for  a  bed.  It  was  very  chilly  way 
up  there;  we  had  only  a  blanket 
apiece.  There  seemed  small  pros- 
pects of  fire  and  less  of  getting 
water,  we  were  practically  beyond 
timber  line  and  streamland.  I  con- 
fess little  Bobbie  dropped  in  a  heap 
too  miserable  to  care,  but  one  can't 
slump  altogether,  so  in  a  few  minutes 
opening  my  eyes  I  saw  that  Lusk  had 
disappeared.  Also  in  the  dark  I 
could  make  out  the  scraggly  outlines 
of  a  scrub  oak.  Hobbling  over  to  it 
I  managed  to  break  off  some  dead 
branches  and  started  a  tiny  fire. 
How  that  living  thing  puts  heart  into 
one!  Warmth,  food  and  water,  are  all 
one  really  needs  in  this  world  for 
happiness — at  times."  Bobbie  cor- 
rected himself  hastily. 

"I  made  sure  that  the  tree  was 


firmly  rooted,  then  sitting  on  the 
up-side  I  wrapped  my  legs  around 
it  and  leaned  back  against  a  rock 
and  tried  to  imagine  being  in  a 
place  from  which  I  could  not  fall 
and  where  there  was  not  constant 
danger  from  sliding  rocks.  The  goat 
is  a  very  slow  moving  animal  and 
its  protection  is  living  in  a  region 
where  no  other  four-foot  wants  to  go, 
and  as  for  two-foots,  there  are  much 
easier  ways  of  committing  suicide." 
His  eyes  twinkled  for  an  instant. 
"I  don't  know  how  long  it  was 
that  I  clung  there  with  the  sensation 
of  being  suspended  in  mid-air  and 
only  half  aware  of  the  surroundings, 
when  I  heard  muffled  noises,  the  slight 
clicking  of  one  rock  with  another. 

"What  could  it  be?  A  goat  cer- 
tainly would  not  approach  that  fire, 
tiny  as  it  was.  It  was  just  possible 
for  a  mountain  lion  to  have  strayed 
up  so  high.  It  might  come  near 
to  the  fire  but  it  would  not  be  so 
clumsy.  Why,  the  Cap'n  of  course. 
My  wits  were  so  befogged  that  I  had 
forgotten  that  there  was  any  other 
human  being  in  the  world. 

4 'He  came  very  slowly,   jumping 


from  rock  to  rock  and  trying  to 
carry  steadily  the  coffee  pot,  nearly 
full  of  melting  snow.  He  put  it  on 
the  fire  and  coaxed  a  blaze  suffi- 
ciently to  make  coffee.  The  gift 
of  David  would  not  enable  me  to 
sing  the  adequate  praise  for  that 
cheering  cup.  I  stopped  seeing  things 
and  began  to  feel  real  again.  My 
crushed  foot  was  bad,  and  tired- 
let  that  pass. 

"The  night  was  very  cold.  We 
had  not  covering  enough  for  two, 
so  we  took  turns  sleeping  and  in 
feeding  the  fire.  Cap'n  found  a 
dead  tree  near,  which  by  careful 
management  provided  us  with  fuel. 
There  was  not  level  space  enough 
to  lie  down  in  comfort  without 
levelling  the  rocks.  I  was  awfully 
worried  about  leaving  the  little  girl 
but  could  not  help  it.  At  daylight 
when  I  attempted  to  rise,  I  really 
thought  something  was  permanently 
wrong — never  felt  so  queer  in  all 
my  life,  as  though  the  whole  ma- 
chinery of  the  body  was  trying  to 
run  without  oil,  everything  rubbed 
and  grated  together  horribly,  frozen 
and  famished  to  boot.  Lusk  was 


done  up  too.  In  this  cheerful  state 
we  started  the  day's  hunt.  I  did 
not  care  if  I  never  saw  a  goat.  In 
fact,  I  preferred  not  to  see  one.  I 
hated  the  thought  of  it,  but  still 
since  I  was  up  in  that  rocky  in- 
ferno to  get  a  goat,  I  knew  I 
had  better  finish  up  the  business  as 
I  never  wanted  to  do  it  again.  So 
we  staggered  along  to  a  little  draw 
where  we  hoped  to  find  water.  On 
a  spur  in  plain  view  was  a  big 
Billy.  Cap'n  said  he  was  as  big 
a  one  as  he  had  ever  seen,  or  that's 
what  he  meant.  I  believe  what  he 
said  was  a  'Whanger.' 

"It  was  half  a  mile,  but  I  did  not 
see  how  I  was  ever  going  to  reach 
him,  so  I  wanted  to  try  a  shot  any- 
way. But  Cap'n  wouldn't  have  it. 

"You  know  how  the  mountains 
weather,  there  is  the  main  ridge  with 
smaller  spurs  shooting  from  it  and 
a  draw  or  gully  between  each  spur. 
Well,  this  chap  was  on  the  second 
spur  from  us,  at  least  two  hours' 
work  to  get  within  gun  range,  pro- 
viding he  would  stay  there.  Dog- 
gedly I  followed  Cap'n  over  the 
rocks  and  around  the  boulders  and 


i6o 


up  a  nasty  place  where  the  rocks 
had  split  leaving  a  crack  about  two 
feet  wide.  A  dead  tree  had  gotten 
jammed  into  it  upside  down,  and 
up  this  tree  with  the  branches  all 
going  the  wrong  way,  we  crawled. 
It  was  as  slippery  as  glass  and  the 
sharp  branches  jagged.  A  misstep 
would  have  sent  us  down  into— 
well,  I  did  not  care  to  examine 
where.  When  we  got  up  to  the 
top — I  had  to  pass  up  my  rifle  and 
pack,  before  I  could  manage  it—- 
we found  ourselves  at  the  head  of 
a  draw  in  a  clump  of  trees,  near  a 
tiny  stream.  It  was  what  the  Cap'n 
had  been  looking  for  ever  since  day- 
break, but  he's  such  a  mute  some- 
times, he  gave  me  no  hint. 

We  had  breakfast  and  lay  there 
for  two  hours.  The  sun  grew 
stronger,  the  whole  world  changed 
to  radiance  and  beauty.  I  moved 
from  the  fire  and  stretched  out  in 
the  full  glare  of  the  sun,  comfort- 
ably cooking,  and  feeling  a  delicious 
sense  of  rest.  We  stayed  till  eleven 
o'clock,  when  Lusk,  who  had  climbed 
up  a  cliff  to  look  around,  motioned 
me  to  come.  Being  once  more  cap- 


able,  I  sprang  up  and  laboriously 
joined  him.  There  was  that  Billy 
waiting  for  us — had  not  moved  an 
inch  apparently.  A  goat's  vision 
is  not  extra  good,  he  depends  upon 
his  nose,  and  the  wind  was  blowing 
toward  us.  By  reaching  the  next 
spur  he  would  be  within  range. 
Hastening  as  much  as  possible,  jump- 
ing from  rock  to  rock,  going  up  the 
face  of  a  cliff  that  was  almost  straight 
up — could  never  have  done  it  if  I 
had  given  myself  time  to  think — 
in  about  half  an  hour  we  crawled 
out  on  a  ledge  with  only  a  draw  of 
slide  rock  between  us  and  the  spur 
opposite  where  we  had  seen  the 
goat.  As  we  peered  cautiously  from 
behind  a  boulder,  Cap'n  suddenly 
pressed  my  head  down  out  of  sight. 
A  little  annoyed  at  this  summary 
treatment  I  started  to  speak.  He 
held  up  a  finger  warningly: 

"'Lion'  he  whispered.  Now  if 
there  is  anything  I  wanted  more 
than  a  goat  it  was  a  mountain  lion. 
Greatly  puzzled  at  the  change  of 
quarry  I  sneaked  after  Lusk.  Every 
move  now  was  as  cautious  and 
noiseless  as  we  could  make  it.  The 


style  of  hunting  was  entirely  changed. 
The  puma  has  all  his  senses  with  him 
ready  for  business.  At  last  stretched 
flat  behind  a  rock  I  peeped  over, 
and  there  within  seventy-five  yards 
of  me,  broadside  on,  a  splendid  shot, 
stood  a  magnificent  tawny  creature, 
with  a  big  tail  swaying  from  side  to 
side.  I  could  see  the  yellow  gleam 
of  his  eye  and  I  shall  never  forget 
that  tail!  He  had  been  lying  down, 
perhaps  asleep  on  the  sunny  ledge 
and  just  at  that  instant  had  gotten 
up.  He  was  not  alarmed.  Quickly 
I  ducked  down  and  raised  my  rifle 
over  the  rock  and  sighted  along  the 
barrel.  Now  what  do  you  suppose 
happened?" 

Bobbie's  face  was  grim  at  the 
recollection  and  his  eyes  looked  out 
reproachfully.  "In  that  fraction  of 
time  the  lion  had  moved  two  or 
three  paces — and  his  head  and  shoul- 
ders were  hidden  behind  a  tree, 
just  the  tip  of  his  nose  was  visible 
to  the  right  of  the  tree.  I  stayed  my 
finger  on  the  trigger  a  second  so  as 
to  let  the  shoulder  be  exposed  again, 
when  that  cussed  puma  turned  at 
right  angles  and  by  the  meanest 


trick  ever  played,  kept  himself  com- 
pletely covered  by  that  tree,  you 
know  they  are  awfully  thin  edge  on, 
until  he  entered  a  clump  of  bushes 
fifty  feet  away,  and  all  that  I  ever 
saw  of  him  was  a  yellow  tail  swaying 
from  right  to  left  of  that  tree.  Oh, 
that  mocking,  tantalising  tail! 

Children!  Can  you  imagine  my 
feelings?  I  believe  I  would  have 
fired  into  that  tree  if  Lusk  had  not 
brought  me  to  my  senses.  *  No ! 
scare  everything.'" 

"That  was  hard  luck,"  we  all 
chorused.  Bobbie  squared  his  shoul- 
ders and  went  on — 

' '  I  looked  for  the  goat.  Of  course, 
it  was  gone  too.  We  started  to  get 
across  the  slide  in  pursuit.  It  was 
awfully  loose;  wouldn't  hold  at  all. 
Down,  down  we  slipped,  with  an  awful 
rattle  of  falling  stones  below,  and 
above  came  pelting  a  regular  land- 
slide, and  we  in  the  middle  of  it. 
When  we  finally  brought  up,  we 
were  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below  the 
goat  spur.  We  had  missed  it  alto- 
gether, way  above  us,  and  I  was 
thankful  not  to  go  pounding  down 
to  the  chasm  below,  with  many  of 


164 


the  rocks  we  had  dislodged.  Hugging 
a  friendly  tree  I  decided  again  I  had 
enough  of  goat.  About  the  lion  I 
would  not  even  think.  Evidently 
the  Angel  of  the  Wild  Things  was 
having  a  busy  day.  The  competi- 
tion was  too  great.  Lusk  had  picked 
himself  up  and  was  scanning  the 
country  with  a  glass. 

"Goat"-— he  said,  handing  me  the 
glasses  and  motioning  upward.  I 
could  have  thrown  them  at  him, 
but,  of  course,  looked,  and  there 
was  that  old  goat  strolling  around 
the  other  side  of  the  spur.  I  picked 
up  my  gun.  Climb  that  mountain 
I  would  not.  It  was  over  two  hun- 
dred yards  in  a  straight  line,  but  I 
would  have  a  shot  at  least.  Without 
moving,  one  leg  gripped  around  a 
sapling,  I  took  free-hand  aim  and 
fired.  The  creature  jumped  and  lay 
down.  It  was  no  use  trying  again, 
couldn't  see  him.  Cap'n  started  up 
the  base  of  the  next  spur  which  was 
quite  close.  I  let  him  go  alone,  not 
even  then  would  I  follow.  In  about 
half  an  hour  I  saw  him  waving  his 
arms  wildly  for  me  to  come.  Having 
gotten  my  wind,  I  lashed  my  flicker- 


165 


ing  enthusiasm  and  toiled  up  a 
wooded  spur,  on  my  head  half  the 
time. 

' '  Well,  I  finished  the  goat. ' '  Bob- 
bie glanced  down  for  a  moment. 
"  I'll  spare  you  the  details,  but  when 
he  lay  down  finally,  his  precious 
head  was  hanging  over  the  cliff.  If 
he  fell  it  would  be  smashed  to  bits. 
When  we  got  to  him  he  was  too 
heavy  for  us  to  move — an  enormous 
fellow.  I  tied  my  belt  around  his 
hind  leg  and  secured  it  to  a  sapling. 
We  had  an  awful  time  skinning  out 
the  head  and  separating  it  from  the 
body;  our  strength  was  spent;  but 
we  managed  it  at  last,  and  just  in 
time,  for  as  we  pulled  it  to  a  safe 
place,  the  sapling  gave  way. 

"'Look  out!'  Cap'n  yelled,  and  I 
dodged  as  the  carcass,  belt,  tree  and 
all,  went  slipping  over  the  edge, 
struck  about  a  hundred  feet  below 
and  went,  rolling,  plunging,  masses 
of  flying  rock  with  it,  down — nearly 
a  mile  below,  and  when  we  got  to 
it  at  sunset,  I  doubt  if  there  was 
a  whole  bone  in  its  body.  It  was 
dark  when  we  staggered  to  the 
meadow  two  or  three  miles  farther 


1 00 


on,    where    we    had    picketed    our 
horses  yesterday. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  ever  sat 
that .  horse,  and  this  foot  will  lay 
me  up  for  a  while,  but  look,  Petty, 
isn't  that  a  head  ?  Bet  it  is  a  record 
breaker!" 

Alas!  Even  as  Bobbie  enthused, 
he  sighed — poor  human  Tevis— 
another  victim  of  the  unattainable. 

11 1  wonder,"  he  said,  "if,  when  I 
look  at  it,  I  shall  always  see  the 
waving  of  that  yellow  tail  from  side 
to  side  behind  a  tree — the  puma 
that  I  did  not  get!" 


IX. 

A     JACK     RABBIT     DANCE      AND      THE 
FANTAIL  GHOST 


UNNING    through    the 
whole    of   our   trip,  as 
silver  in  a  brocade, were 
allusions  to  the"fantail" 
—a  small  deer  of  quite 
distinct  species.     Nim- 
rod,  the  scientist,  pricked  up  his  ears 
at  each  hint. 

''It  has  not  been  conclusively 
proven  that  the  "fan tail"  exists. 
Hunters'  stories  affirm  it.  An  isolated 
bone  or  two,  but  never  a  complete 
skeleton,  has  been  produced.  The 
fragments  I  have  seen  might  have 


been  the  young  of   black-  or  white- 
tail." 

Preserving  an  open  mind  he  took 
copious  notes  from  Cap'n  and 
Sommers. 

"I  ain't  never  killed  one,"  con- 
fessed Cap'n, "  but  they  are  sure  here, 
seen  their  tracks  often.  It's  narrower 
than  a  fawn.  Once  I  followed  one 
and  came  on  it  in  the  dusk,  about 
the  size  of  a  greyhound,  only  shorter 
of  course,  a  full  grown  adult  with 
small  horns.  No,  it  was  not  a  fawn, 
too  clean  limbed  and  tight  made— 
and  so  on. 

Nimrod  put  it  all  down  in  his 
journal.  "Perhaps,"  he  said:  and 
travelled  miles  to  see  a  track  the 
Captain  assured  him  was  "fantail." 

"It  may  be,"  he  announced,  after 
measuring  it  carefully  fore  and  aft  and 
amidships  and  taking  its  photograph. 
"How  I  would  like  to  be  sure!  A 
good  specimen  settling  the  matter 
would  be  worth  while."  His  scien- 
tific acquisitiveness  was  fully  aroused. 

One  morning  we  started,  as  we  had 
daily,  to  hunt  for  what  we  could  find. 
Nimrod  read  many  tales  of  the  wild 
for  me.  Elk  had  bedded  here  last 


night,  a  bear  had  rubbed  the  bark 
off  that  tree,  scratching  his  back,  a 
close  inspection  disclosed  some  hairs 
sticking  to  it;  black  bear,  brown  or 
grizzly,  small  or  large,  which  way 
going,  all  this  he  knew  at  a  glance, 
arriving  at  the  result  by  knowledge 
and  deduction. 

At  last  on  a  sun-baked  hillside  we 
dropped  to  rest  in  a  huckleberry 
patch,  wonderful  child  of  a  forest 
fire.  Never  in  the  hot-houses  of 
Midas  have  I  seen  such  berries  as 
nature  provides  here  for  the  taking. 
Acres  of  huckleberries  as  big  as  one's 
thumb,  juicy  and  sweet,  hanging 
in  luscious  luxuriance,  sharp  con- 
trast to  the  spiny  manzanita  and 
rocky  arid  stretches.  While  they  last 
the  bears  gorge  themselves,  and  we 
gorged  ourselves  without  the  effort 
even  of  rising.  To  be  Irish — al- 
though we  were  lying  down,  we  were 
practically  sitting  up,  the  hillside  was 
so  steep.  I  felt  like  the  lazy  man  of 
Bagdad  who  reclined  under  a  fig  tree, 
all  his  life,  nourished  by  the  fruit  that 
dropped  into  his  mouth. 

Nimrod's  keen  eye  was  scanning 
an  opposite  ridge  not  two  hundred 


170 


yards  away.  The  ridges  follow  one 
another  like  the  teeth  of  a  comb  and 
relatively  as  close.  Suddenly  he 
grabbed  his  field  glasses  and  gazed 
excitedly. 

"Look,  what  do  you  see  there? 
There,  beside  that  stump,"  locating 
the  spot  with  the  glasses.  I  saw 
a  small  deer,  partly  hidden  by  bushes. 

"Fantail?"  I  whispered  breath- 
lessly, knowing  what  it  would  mean 
to  Nimrod  if  he  could  really  see  one. 
But  even  as  I  said  it,  came  a  dis- 
gusted "pshaw,"  from  him  as  the 
cause  came  into  view  around  a 
boulder,  a  blacktail  doe.  The  little 
one  sprang  up  and  joined  his  mother, 
followed  by  a  second  fawn.  It  was  a 
pretty  sight  to  see  them  moving 
leisurely  along  unalarmed,  the  wind 
was  blowing  toward  us.  With  ear 
and  tail  and  leg  lazily  they  fought 
the  deer  flies.  Undoubtedly  the 
mother  was  making  for  some  spot 
she  knew,  some  sylvan  draw  in  which 
to  pass  the  heated  midday  hours. 
In  time  the  family  group  drifted  out 
of  sight  over  the  ridge  into  a  spot  I 
was  to  know. 

Then  was  enacted  a  drama  of  the 


TAWNY  SHADOW  CLOSE  AGAINST  THE  RED  EARTF 


mountains  that  is  rarely  seen,  even 
by  old  guides,  and  as  events  proved, 
we  were  by  no  means  the  passive 
spectators  we  thought.  Lying 
supinely  on  a  hillside  seems  a  good 
way  to  avoid  incident,  but  if  you  had 
seen  what  we  did,  you  would  have 
done  what  we  did,  doubtless,  with 
consequences  as  far  reaching. 

Perhaps  the  sun  had  climbed  to- 
ward noon  long  enough  for  the 
millions  of  time  tellers  to  have  ticked 
off  the  quarter-hour  when  on  the  same 
hillside  opposite,  a  tawny  shadow 
close  against  the  red  earth  moved 
swiftly,  nose  to  the  ground.  We  never 
stirred,  the  gun  and  the  camera  re- 
mained undisturbed,  so  absorbed  were 
we  watching  that  incarnate  death 
tracking  its  prey.  I  had  never  seen  a 
puma  in  broad  daylight  outside  of 
a  cage,  and  now  as  that  great  cat 
stealthily  crawled  along,  disappearing 
in  the  berry  patches,  and  out  again, 
I  thrilled  with  the  by-gone  delightful 
horror  of  "Arabian  Nights!" 

"He  is  following  the  blacktail 
trail,"  Nimrod  whispered.  "  It  is  late 
in  the  day  for  him  to  be  hunting." 
Cautiously  we  sat  up  among  the 


bushes,  never  taking  eyes  off 
swiftly  sneaking  form,  that  wove 
back  and  forth.  It  paused  where 
the  fawns  had  joined  on  and  then 
followed  faster  than  before;  soon  it 
was  over  the  ridge. 

"Will  he  catch  her?"  I  asked, 
jumping  up. 

"Not  likely,  but  they  do  some- 
times," was  the  answer  as  with  one 
accord  we  started  to  follow.  It  meant 
a  hard  scramble  to  get  over  there  and 
we  had  not  gone  far  when  the  doe 
came  running  back  over  the  ridge. 
Evidently  frightened  by  the  lion,  she 
had  hidden  her  young  and  was  lead- 
ing him  away  from  them  as  well  as 
trying  to  save  herself. 

Alas!  she  saw  us  now  in  full  view, 
and  turned  her  course.  She  did  not 
know  that  we  could  be  trusted. 
She  lost  ground  by  it  and  I  thought 
I  got  one  glimpse  of  a  yellow  pursuer 
drawing  near.  Hurry  as  fast  as  we 
could,  it  was  nearly  half  an  hour 
before  we  got  to  the  place  where  the 
blacktail  had  turned  and  the  lion 
track  showed,  not  on  the  trail,  but 
running  alongside.  We  followed  some 
distance.  It  had  been  a  successful 


hunt  for  the  tawny  one,  and  we  found 
the  poor  quarry  in  iio  death  agony. 
The  lion  of  course  had  removed  him- 
self at  our  approach.  He  could  af- 
ford to  leave  the  meal,  it  would  wait 
for  him.  It  was  but  humane  to  put 
a  bullet  where  it  would  speed  oblivion 
to  the  cruelly  wounded  deer.  That 
bullet  of  mercy,  mark  it  well,  we  had 
trouble  enough  with  it  and  with 
another.  It  would  seem  that 
innocence  and  good  intentions  must 
be  protected,  but  vice,  expecting 
punishment,  takes  care  of  its  own. 

We  searched  long  for  the  little 
blacktail,  but  they  were  successfully 
hidden.  Nimrod  calmed  my  distress 
for  their  motherless,  unprotected 
condition  by  saying  that  they  were 
big  enough  to  be  weaned  and  there 
was  a  good  chance  of  them  being  able 
to  feed  themselves  if  the  Angel  of 
the  Wild  Things  would  protect  them 
from  enemies.  I  knew  that  a  very 
young  fawn  would  probably  starve  to 
death  on  the  spot  where  it  dropped, 
when  the  mother  gave  the  signal  to 
freeze — waiting,  waiting  for  its  pro- 
tector's little  grunt  of  release. 

On  the  way  back  to  camp  Nimrod 


spied  a  baby  rabbit  trying  to  hide. 
He  was  such  a  dear  little  fellow  that 
Nimrod,  wishing  to  have  him  pose 
for  a  picture,  dexterously  dropped 
a  hat  over  him,  and  in  order  not  to 
hurt  his  model,  replaced  the  hat  with 
the  bunny  inside,  and  for  several 
hours  that  astonished  rabbit 
travelled  in  safety  on  the  top  of  a 
curly  head.  He  was  then  put  on  the 
ground  by  the  side  of  our  tent  with 
the  lid  of  a  'telescope'  over  him.  He 
had  plenty  of  air  and  grass  to  feed 
on  till  morning. 

The  Tevi  crawled  back  in  time  for 
dinner.  "Worn  to  a  frazzle"  was 
Sally's  comment. 

To  one  who  has  never  answered 
the  call  of  the  Red  Gods,  how  can 
the  all-pervading  friendliness  of  the 
camp  fire  be  described?  It  is  inti- 
mate, it  is  mystical,  it  is  soul- 
enveloping;  or  it  is  merely  cheering, 
according  to  one's  mood.  It  can  be 
perverse  and  disagreeable,  but  it  is 
always  necessary,  the  very  heart  of 
camp  life.  Perhaps  we  all  were  fire 
worshippers  once.  I  love  it  best  as 
the  comfortable  open-house  friend 
between  dinner  and  bed.  Then 


stories  float  over  it,  even  as  mist 
on  the  meadows.  It  is  the  birth- 
place of  fancy,  the  cradle  of  memory. 

A  comfortable  group  was  revealed 
by  its  glow  this  night. 

Drawn  on  by  deft  questions  from 
Nimrod  the  Cap'n  was  spinning  one 
of  his  yarns  about  the  mysterious 
"fantail."  Bobbie  was  cleaning  a 
gun,  Sally  curled  up  near  him  on  a 
rug  like  a  contented  kitten.  Sommers 
sat  on  his  feet,  whittling  a  stick. 

1 '  If  you  once  caught  sight  of  its 
tail,  you'd  know — the  critter  spreads 
it  out  wide  like — "  the  Cap'n  stopped 
as  a  sound,  curious  yet  quite  audible, 
broke  in  upon  his  speech. 

We  all  sat  still  listening.  Thump — 
thump — silence.  Then  thump— 
thump — .  It  had  a  hollow  metallic 
sound,  unusual  for  the  woods.  What 
could  it  be  ?  Light  broke  across  Nim- 
rod's  face.  He  began  to  laugh,  silent- 
ly. "It's  that  baby  rabbit  I  got  on 
the  trail  to-day,"  he  said  softly,  so  as 
not  to  disturb  the  noise-maker. 

The  'telescope,'  a  good-sized  case 
for  carrying  clothes,  was  made  of 
leatheroid,  and  acted  as  a  sounding 
board.  "If  there  are  any  rabbits 


within  hearing  they  will  come.  The 
little  fellow  is  thumping  for  them. 
It's  the  rabbit  way  of  calling  for 
help,"  said  Nimrod.  "There,  did  you 
see  that?  Keep  quiet,  and  don't 


move." 


A  big  rabbit  had  dashed  within 
the  circle  of  the  fire-light  and  dis- 
appeared into  the  darkness.  In  a 
few  minutes  another  flitted  in  and 
out  of  sight,  another  and  another, 
thump — thump — could  be  heard 
from  different  parts  of  the  forest. 

"They  are  gathering,"  Nimrod 
whispered,  "must  be  a  dozen  at 
least." 

Bobbie  went  into  his  tent  and 
came  out  with  a  lighted  acetylene 
lantern.  With  this  he  advanced  into 
the  forest  cautiously,  the  lantern 
casting  a  long  cone  of  light  as  he 
turned  it  slowly,  searching.  The 
sounds  ceased.  He  sat  down  on  a 
root.  We  all  quietly  joined  him. 

The  rabbits,  startled  at  first  by  the 
strange  light,  were  quiet,  also  watch- 
ing. Then  one  bold  chap,  moved  by 
curiosity,  hopped  cautiously  near; 
others  followed.  No  harm  resulting, 
he  advanced  still  nearer,  and  leaped 


HIPPITY  HOP,  AROUND  AND  AROUND 


across  the  patch  of  lighted  ground. 
One,  a  dozen  rabbits,  big  and  little, 
followed  him.  Circling,  he  came  back 
again  and  again,  each  time  nearer  to 
the  queer  little  sun.  What  he  did 
others  did,  in  augmenting  numbers 
until  we  counted  twenty  playing  the 
game  of  "Follow  the  Leader."  It 
was  a  weird  sight — a  Rabbit  Shadow 
Dance.  Hop  hop,  hippity,  hop,  back- 
wards and  forth  and  around  went 
the  shadows — a  fairy  scene.  Nimrod 
slipped  away  to  get  his  camera. 
The  rabbits  hardly  noticed  him,  so 
interested  were  they  in  their  game. 

In  every  group  there  is  always  a 
foolhardy  one  and  curiosity  is  a 
strong  motive  power,  even  in 
rabbits.  One  little  fellow  began  to 
examine  the  camera  and  actually 
sat  on  top  as  though  it  were  a  stump. 
Bobbie  could  not  resist  putting  out 
his  hand  and  seizing  the  rabbit  by 
the  ears.  It  set  up  a  sharp  squealing. 
At  the  same  moment  a  venturesome 
Jack  came  so  close  to  the  lamp  in  his 
investigations  that  he  burned  his  nose 
and  sprang  back. 

Instantly  every  rabbit  disappeared. 
Warned    of    the    danger    by    their 


l82 


companion's  squeals,  their  former 
fears  returned.  Bobbie,  seeing  his 
mistake,  had  at  once  released  the 
captive,  but  the  woods  remained  as 
silent  as  a  theatre  after  the  show  is 
over.  For  long  we  sat  quiet  hoping 
for  a  return  of  our  entertainers,  but 
the  charm  was  broken,  the  lamp  died 
out,  and  again  only  the  noisy  silence, 
the  starlit  darkness,  the  camp-fire 
message. 

The  next  morning  we  made  an 
early  start,  animated  by  the  Cap'n's 
assurance  that  he  might  show  us 
"fantail,"  as  he  had  "seen  fresh 
tracks"  the  night  before.  Also  he 
promised  that  I  could  ride  all  the  way ; 
my  lion-blacktail  pursuit  had  made 
this  imperative. 

Oh,  land  of  steeps  and  rocks,  many 
a  sacrifice  of  aches  and  pains  you 
have  accepted  from  me!  But  to- 
day it  offered  one  of  its  caresses, 
and  like  all  things  beautiful  and 
rare,  it  bestowed  its  blessing  upon 
us  in  full  measure.  Blithely,  in  the 
crisp  fragrant  air  of  early  sunlight, 
we  followed  a  well-defined  game  trail 
bordering  leisurely  a  tumbling  in- 
consequent rill  that  drew  its  life  from 


ONE  ACTUALLY  SAT  ON  TOP  OF  THE  CAMERA 


this  wooded  ravine.  Once  we  floun- 
dered in  a  willow  bog;  but  it  was  a 
passing  frown  not  indicative  of  tem- 
per. Already  the  way  was  smiling, 
masses  of  flaming  Indian  cup,  and  the 
fairy  blue  bell,  the  aristocratic  lupin 
in  full  lilac  bloom,  and  wealth  of 
feathery  grasses  for  the  open  glades, 
while  in  the  leafy  gloom  was  spread 
a  carpet  of  pine  needles  on  which 
the  willing  partridge  vine  had  woven 
a  pattern  of  shining  green,  pailletted 
with  coral,  and  strange  coloured 
beads  on  brilliant  red  and  purple 
stems  welcomed  our  passing. 

Three  miles  of  this  when  the  Cap'n 
made  a  signal  to  dismount.  I  looked 
disapproving  surprise  which  brought 
in  response  a  hitch  of  the  shoulder, 
a  jerk  of  the  head,  which  indicated 
that  it  was  not  far  to  walk.  Silently 
he  tied  the  horses  and  made  his  way, 
through  a  thicket,  with  elaborate  care 
to  avoid  noise,  I  followed,  hardly 
breathing,  and  Nimrod  brought  up  as 
rear  guard.  His  eyes  had  unusual 
brightness.  Perhaps  he  was  on  the 
edge  of  solving  a  long  dispute  be- 
tween hunters  and  scientists.  It  was 
understood  that  if  possible  I  was  to 


secure  a  specimen  of  "fantail,"  a 
proper  sacrifice  for  the  advancement 
of  knowledge. 

After  infinite  precaution,  wriggling 
past  branches,  avoiding  a  step  on 
twig,  dead  leaf  or  any  noise  maker, 
we  arrived  at  a  spot  that  is  deep 
graven  in  my  memory.  It  was  a 
small  open  basin,  perhaps  a  hundred 
yards  in  diameter,  surrounded  by  a 
ring  of  dense  second-growth  saplings. 
The  marks  of  a  forest  fire  were  every- 
where present  in  the  charred  sticks 
heaped  one  on  the  other,  making 
travel  through  it  impossible,  com- 
bined as  it  was,  with  tall  marsh  grass 
and  bog  foundation.  The  tree  circle 
was  interrupted  only  at  the  spot, 
where  we  were.  Here  was  salt  lick,  a 
forty-foot  patch  of  ground  where  the 
earth  was  mixed  with  strong  alkali. 
These  are  not  uncommon  in  the 
mountains  and  invariably  are  the 
resorts  of  animals  when  instinct  sends 
them  seeking  for  salines.  A  game 
trail  led  through  this  one  and  many 
tracks  showed  its  popularity. 

The  Cap'n  with  a  dramatic  gesture 
pointed  to  the  ground  and  Nimrod 
was  on  his  knees  at  once  examining 


a  dainty  deer  track.  It  was  fresh, 
not  more  than  two  hours  old, 
and  there  were  staler  tracks  of  the 
same  animal,  probably  made  yester- 
day, showing  that  it  was  staying 
in  this  locality. 

Nimrod  was  full  of  suppressed  ex- 
citement. My  lips  formed  the  magic 
word — "fantail?"  and  the  answering 
nod  expressed — "I  really  begin  to 
think  so!" 

Then  he  pointed  to  another  set  of 
tracks,  a  little  smaller,  of  same  type 
and  wrote  on  his  note  book  for  me  to 
see,  "May  be  buck  and  doe." 

To  track  them  was  out  of  the 
question,  I  was  too  lame,  so  making 
ourselves  as  comfortable  as  possible 
we  prepared  to  wait  for  the  return 
of  the  track-makers.  They  would  al- 
most surely  come  back,  but  possibly 
notfor  several  hours,  toward  evening. 
The  Cap'n  went  back  to  the  horses, 
for  the  cold  lunch  provided  against 
such  a  contingency,  and  Nimrod 
explored  the  adjacent  woods,  always 
silently  and  within  sight. 

In  the  woods  there  are  no  electric 
bells  with  someone  at  the  other  end 
in  case  of  emergency,  and  as  you 


know  if  you  have  read  these  confes- 
sions, I  would  rather  face  a  bear  any 
day  than  be  left  alone. 

It  was  a  sweet  time;  this  still 
hunting  was  agreeably  restful.  Idly, 
I  reclined  on  the  top  of  some  thick 
bushes,  an  old  trick  as  the  ground 
gets  uncomfortably  hard.  The  bush 
gives  somewhat  and  one  has  a  springy 
seat.  Sage  brush  makes  an  ideal 
sofa,  but  this  stunted  willow  was  not 
bad.  The  hours  wore  on.  Nimrod 
ceased  exploring  and  took  to  scrib- 
bling. His  efforts  enriched  the  pres- 
ent for  me  at  least : 

A  SONG  OF  THE  WEST 

"A    meadow   lark   sang  as   the  sun  went 
down, 

He  sang  in  the  dying  glow, 
He  stirred  up  my  heart  with  his  artless  art 

And  his  song  of  the  long  ago. 

"He  sang  me  a  song  of  the  West,  the 

West, 

He  set  all  my  feelings  aglow, 
He  brought  back  the  days  of  my  youth 

with  his  song — 
His  song  of  the  long  ago. 

"A  coyote  howled  when  the  night  was  gone, 
A  voice  on  the  wind  from  the  East; 


My  horse  turned  his  head  from  the  place 

where  he  fed, 
He  heard  but  a  hated  beast. 

But  he  sang  me  a  song  of  the  West, 
the  West,  etc. 

"A  Sioux  in  his  tepee  away  in  the  night 
Drummed  a  chant  of  the  'Buffalo  days' 

Till  the  men  with  me  swore  at  the  savage 

uproar 
And  cursed  him,  his  drum  and  his  race. 

But  he  sang  me  a  song  of  the  West, 
the  West,  etc. 

"The  moon  in  the  morn  was  still  in  the  sky 
But  the  mountains  in  day  were  aglow, 

And  the  girl  by  my  side,  the  blue-eyed,  my 

bride, 
Sang,  but  not  of  the  long  ago. 

"She  sang  me  a  song  of  the  West,  the  West, 
Swept  sorrow  and  worry  away; 

She  stirred  up  my  heart  with  her  tuneful 

art 
And  her  song  of  the  strong  to-day." 

Perhaps  for  a  moment  we  may 
have  forgotten  the  "fantail,"  but  the 
Cap'n  had  not.  His  whole  attitude 
stiffened  in  attention  and  so  did  ours. 
I  could  not  hear  nor  see  a  thing  new, 
but  Nimrod  evidently  did.  His  breath 
was  coming  fast  and  my  heart  began 
to  thump  to  suffocation.  It  must  be 


"fantail"  and  I  would  have  to  shoot. 
On  me  depended  the  solution  of  the 
"f antail"  puzzle. 

The  Cap'n  passed  over  the  gun 
and  motioned  across  the  little  basin. 
I  was  too  short  to  see  over  the  tall 
marsh  grass  in  the  foreground.  In 
desperation  I  found  precarious  foot- 
ing on  a  root  which  brought  me  on  a 
level  with  their  eyes,  and  looking 
through  the  branches  of  an  aggravat- 
ing willow  bush  that  was  in  the  way, 
I  saw  two  ears  facing  me.  One 
flicked  a  fly  off.  It  was  a  hundred 
yards  fully,  and  the  light  was  failing. 
The  ears  moved,  turned  and  I  could 
guess  where  the  body  was. 

'  'Shoot — it's  going, ' '  whispered  the 
Cap'n. 

Another  instant,  and  the  illusive 
"fantail"  would  be  again  a  myth.  I 
took  the  desperate  chance  and  aimed 
where  his  shoulders  ought  to  be. 
The  animal  jumped,  and  gave  one 
glimpse  of  itself  going  over  a  log. 

"  It  is  hit  "cried  the  Cap'n.  I  began 
to  weep.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had 
fired  at  a  live  thing  without  having 
a  sure  shot.  The  four  victims  of  my 
pride  had  never  suffered.  Now  I 


had  wounded  that  dainty  little  crea- 
ture that  could  harm  no  one — and  it 
had  gotten  away.  To  track  it  in  that 
night  in  the  down  timber,  was 
impossible. 

"Perhaps  you  did  not  hit  it, "  con- 
soled Nimrod.  But  the  Cap'n,  not 
comprehending  and  also  seeking  to 
console,  insisted  that  I  had.  "We'll 
get  him  in  the  morning." 

"What  did  it  look  like,  "  I  enquired 
of  Nimrod,  whereupon  that  gentle- 
man gave  me  a  curious  glance. 

"You  will  see  to-morrow,  perhaps," 
and  changed  the  subject. 

Oh!  ghost  of  the  Fantail!  How 
it  haunted  me  that  night!  If  it  had 
been  trained  by  the  Society  for 
Psychical  Research  it  could  not  have 
done  its  work  better.  All  night  I 
kept  vigil  and  at  daybreak  we  were 
back  at  the  place  where  it  had  stood 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  basin. 
The  ground  was  hard  and  yielded  no 
evidence.  For  a  long  time  we  cast 
about  for  some  sign.  It  seemed 
hopeless,  but  I  would  not  give  up. 
Every  leaf  and  tiny  pebble  was 
searched. 

Had  we  seen  anything  last  night? 


Had  I  really  fired  at  something  flesh 
and  blood,  or  was  it  a  spook?  Yes — 
a  tiny  drop  of  blood  showed  brown 
on  a  leaf. 

Then  began  a  wonderful  exhibition 
of  trailing  on  the  part  of  Nimrod 
and  Cap'n.  They  found  the  track, 
lost  it  repeatedly,  circled  as  does  a 
dog,  g°t  it  again,  or  else  a  pin  point 
of  blood  on  leaf  or  stone  or  gravel. 
It  led  across  the  ravine  up  the  steep 
bare  hillside;  once  after  a  tiresome 
search  we  found  where  it  had  lain 
for  the  night.  Nimrod  after  close 
study  diagnosed  the  injury  as  a 
"broken  leg."  Shuddering  and  sick 
I  urged  haste,  but  that  was  futile. 
There  was  no  blood  now,  there  never 
had  been  much,  blindly  we  selected 
a  game  trail  where  we  saw  many 
tracks  of  a  big  deer  and  a  lion  track 
too,  but  not  the  small  onewewanted. 
Eight  hours  had  passed  in  unravelling 
the  puzzle.  I  was  exhausted  as  usual, 
but  could  not  give  up.  Nimrod 
seemed  about  to  speak,  when  far 
ahead  on  the  trail  I  saw  a  small 
deer. 

The  Cap'n  whispered  "Aim  sure." 
At  last  the  "fantaiT;  up  flew  the 


gun.  "It  looks  like  a  fawn,"  I  de- 
murred. It  started  to  go  on  three 
legs  and  I  hesitated  no  longer.  The 
animal  shot  in  the  air,  turned  a 
complete  somersault  and  rolled  a 
hundred  yards  down  the  mountain 
before  a  boulder  stopped  it,  quite 
dead.  I  am  sure  the  Cap'n  never 
tells  this  story. 

Instead  of  hurrying  toward  it, 
Nimrod  sat  down  to  rest.  He 
answered  my  amazed  look  by — 

"That  'fantail'  is  a  blackt ail  fawn. 
Suspected  it  last  night,  but  its  track 
was  peculiar  and  the  Cap'n  was  so 
sure.  I  could  not  see  it  well  last 
night,  and  its  being  alone  without 
the  mother  was  misleading." 

"Do  you  know  where  you  are?" 
he  added — I  shook  my  head,  too 
chagrined  for  casual  matters. 

"Up  there  is  the  ridge  where  the 
lion  killed  that  blacktail  doe.  Of 
course  the  fawns  would  hang  around 
in  the  locality." 

"But  the  other?"     I  faltered. 

"Lion  got  it!  I  passed  the  re- 
mains this  morning  but  steered  you 
away.  Your  fawn  was  wounded,  it 
was  better  to  finish " 


194 


I  stopped  him,  not  wishing  to  hear 
more.  Trusting  to  the  wisdom  of 
another,  inspired  by  a  desire  to  fur- 
ther science,  I  had  tortured  and 
killed  that  motherless  little  creature! 
No  wonder  the  name  of  "f  ant  ail" 
disappeared  from  the  camp  circle 
and  I  never  raised  a  gun  again  that 
trip  or  for  years  and  never  but  once 
since  at  a  living  mark. 

Treacherous  "fantail,"  illusive,  un- 
proven  still,  protected  by  Saint  Hu- 
bert, you  may  roam  the  hills  in  safety, 
you  may  enshroud  yourself  in 
mystery,  while  retribution  works  its 
way  with  me. 


X. 


A     SINEW     OF     THE     LAW     DISPLAYED 

HAT  was  the  situation. 
We  had  ended  the  mis- 
ery of  a  doe  wounded 
to  death  by  a  mountain 
lion,  we  had  killed  a 
blacktail  fawn  by  mis- 
take for  a  "fantail."  Both  crimes 
punishable  by  law,  yet  perpetrated 
from  the  best  of  motives  and  by  one 
who  believes  deeply  in  game  protec- 
tion. 

Three  days  after  the  tragedy  re- 
lated, two  men  rode  into  the  camp. 
They  poked  about  as  though  they 
had  right  to  do  so,  and  my  growing 
indignation  had  almost  produced 


speech  when  the  elder  of  the  two, 
putting  a  hand  suggestively  on  the 
doe's  skull  which  Nimrod  at  that 
moment  was  sketching,  remarked: 

"Are  you  the  fellow  who  makes 
pictures  of  animals  and  writes  about 
them?  Well,  Mr.  Nimrod,  you  are 
my  man,  you  are  under  arrest! 
I  reckon  that  skull  and  this  fawn 
skin  will  do.  My  name  is  Dean." 
He  displayed  a  game-warden's  badge 
with  an  air  of  triumph. 

Immediately  there  was  a  great 
hubbub  in  camp.  Nimrod  arrested 
for  killing  a  doe  and  a  fawn,  Nimrod 
who  had  not  fired  a  gun  the  whole 
trip!  In  vain  I  endeavoured  to  ex- 
plain that  mine  the  killing,  mine  the 
punishment.  Nimrod  would  not 
permit  it.  He  assumed  the  blame, 
but  described  to  Dean  the  situation; 
of  no  avail. 

"I  ain't  made  an  arrest  this  sum- 
mer and  I'm  about  due  to  hold 
down  my  job.  I've  got  a  good  case, 
plenty  of  proof — Mackenzie  here  will 
swear  to  it.  And  it  will  do  me  good, 
show  my  boss  I  am  busy." 

With  insolent  frankness  he  said 
this,  and  the  look  of  the  man  gave 


197, 


no  hope  that  he  would  relent.  Dean 
intended  to  take  his  prisoner  away 
immediately.  It  required  much  per- 
suasion, and  a  bond  to  keep  Nimrod 
with  us  under  pledge  to  appear  at 
Garver  to  stand  trial  within  forty- 
eight  hours. 

There  is  an  old  saying:  One  never 
knows  the  law  until  one  breaks  it. 
Here  was  I  a  criminal,  though  with 
no  such  intent,  and  worst  of  all  not 
allowed  to  bear  my  own  punishment. 

Thus  was  our  trip  broken  up  and 
by  five  o'clock  next  morning  our 
gloomy  party  began  a  forced  march 
in  order  to  make  Garver  in  time. 
One  hundred  miles  in  two  days  is 
not  possible  with  a  pack-train.  Leav- 
ing Sommers  and  Charley  to  bring 
it  as  fast  as  they  could,  the  Cap'n, 
the  Tevi  and  the  criminals  hurried 
ahead,  our  horses  at  a  trot  over  logs, 
bogs,  wasps'  nests,  jolt,  jolt,  an 
awful  day's  travel.  We  ate  a  cold 
dinner,  with  the  exception  of  coffee, 
and  in  the  small  hours  got  into 
Pine  Cone  Lodge,  more  dead  than 
alive.  Forty  miles  without  a  trail, 
part  of  it  in  a  snow-storm  that  ren- 
dered the  footing  most  precarious. 


One  of  the  horses  had  to  be  shot 
afterward.  The  cold  was  of  the 
penetrating,  damp  variety.  The 
next  day .  we  made  the  sixty-odd 
miles  in  a  carry-all,  over  a  com- 
bination of  ruts  and  holes  and 
'  *  corduroy ' '  which  was  termed  a  road. 

Oh  shades  of  the  Pioneer  Mothers! 
For  you,  such  may  have  been  all 
in  the  day's  work — but  I  am  not 
complaining,  did  you  think  I  was? 
No,  only  giving  a  hint  of  what  it  is 
like  to  be  caught  in  the  toils  of  error. 
I  cannot  pretend  to  be  a  heroine, 
and  did  not  enjoy  it. 

The  Cap'n  was  undeniably  per- 
turbed. This  arrest  might  seriously 
hurt  his  business,  if  followed  by 
conviction.  He  had  sent  a  call 
among  the  mountains  for  a  rally  of 
his  friends  at  Garver,  with  what 
result  you  shall  see. 

" All  I  want  is  fair  play"  he  said. 
"Dean  is  a  bad  character.  Has 
killed  two  men  and  been  in  the 
Ten.'  But  he's  got  a  pull  that 
made  him  game  warden  and  he 
wants  to  show  them  what  he  can 
do.  And  he  ain't  friendly  to  me, 
or  anybody,  as  I  know  of." 


Our  first  business  in  the  morning 
was  to  secure  counsel,  one  Hiram 
Barker.  Our  second,  to  seek  with 
a  purpose  the  county  newspaper 
office;  but  news  was  scarce,  it  was 
too  good  a  story  and  the  editor,  who 
was  also  owner  as  well  as  printer  and 
devil,  smiled  at  us  deprecatingly 
and  wrote  and  wrote  and  wrote, 
creating  a  wonderful  fabric  with 
enough  woof  of  truth  to  make  it 
hold  together.  Wizard  Fantail,  are 
you  not  yet  avenged? 

As  we  were  walking  down  the  main 
street  in  the  brilliant  shimmering 
sunshine,  Sally  exclaimed:  "Oh, 
look!  isn't  that  Mr.  Barker  with  a 
new  suit  on,  'ready  made'  from  Chi- 
cago and  a  b'iled  shirt?" 

"Yes,"  Nimrod  affirmed.  "They 
say  that  he  always  gets  a  new  suit 
of  clothes  when  he  is  retained  on  a 
case.  The  boys  call  it  his  law  suit. 
We  left  him  in  Swan's  Emporium  an 
hour  ago  when  Mrs.  Nimrod  acquired 
the  affair  she  is  wearing  that  makes 
her  look  like  a  peony! "  This  was  a 
thoroughly  reproachable  shirtwaist  of 
shrimp  pink  flannel ;  mine  was  in  tat- 
ters and  the  luggage  fifty  miles  away. 


Sally  took  up  the  Barker  theme. 
"Now  he  is  a  flourishing  attorney, 
one  day  in  the  week  in  his  office. 
This  morning  in  overalls  and  a 
flannel  shirt  he  was  a  hard-working 
farmer.  Has  a  ranch  fifty  miles 
below  here,  you  say?  His  trousers 
are  over  his  boots  and  he  has  a  cigar 
instead  of  a  quid  in  his  mouth. 
These  afe  the  final  touches.  The 
butterfly  has  burst  forth." 

"More  like  a  magpie.  Wait  till 
you  hear  him  this  afternoon."  Nim- 
rod  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was 
nearing  two  o'clock.  Hiram  Barker, 
attorney-at-law,  on  seeing  the  group 
changed  his  course  and  bowing  cere- 
moniously to  the  ladies  addressed 
his  client. 

"I  see  the  jedge  is  makin'  for  the 
court  room  and  Mister  Dean  is 
waitin'  for  him  on  the  steps.  He 
ain't  got  no  call  to  be  friendly  with 
the  jedge  jest  now."  Then  giving 
himself  a  little  mental  shake  he 
slipped  out  of  his  Western  vernacular 
as  he  had  out  of  his  rancher's 
clothes,  and  his  speech  became  as 
ready  made  as  his  attire. 

"Shall  we  proceed  to  the    court 


room?  Judge  Neal  is  punctual.  I 
find  that  the  prosecution  has  a  few 
exhibits."  He  conversed  in  a  low 
tone  with  Nimrod  until  the  main 
business  block  of  the  town  was 
reached.  It  was  two  story,  of  brick, 
the  ground  floor  divided  into  stores, 
the  second  floor  devoted  to  several 
offices  and  the  ' '  town  hall. ' '  Within 
its  bare,  dirty,  whitewashed  *walls 
had  transpired  most  of  the  excite- 
ments of  Garver.  Its  dances,  its 
political  meetings,  its  theatricals,  its 
public  functions  and  its  trials.  On 
gala  occasions,  flags  and  greens  may 
have  draped  its  ugliness,  to-day 
there  was  not  one  spot  of  beauty 
upon  which  the  repelled  eye  could 
rest.  High,  narrow  windows,  dirty 
and  bare  of  shades,  admitted  the 
August's  sun  full  heat  upon  a  deal 
table  at  one  end,  a  dozen  wooden 
chairs  grouped  near  it  and  two  rows 
of  heavy  wooden  benches  ranging 
back  from  it.  A  glass  transom, 
broken  at  some  more  jovial  session 
had  been  mended  with  brown  paper, 
and  the  insignia  of  winter,  a  cast- 
iron  pot-bellied  stove,  had  been  dis- 
jointed by  one  pipe  length,  the  two 


severed  ends  gaping  mute  testimony 
to  the  room's  neglect. 

The  Tevi  sat  on  one  of  the  front 
benches,  with  me.  Nimrod  upon 
another  bench  with  the  sheriff,  the 
front  of  a  group  of  men.  Facing  us, 
behind  the  deal  table  on  a  revolving 
chair  sat  the  particular  branch  of 
Uncle  Sam's  tree  of  justice  who  was 
to  preside  over  our  fate. 

Judge  Neal  was  a  wizened,  sandy- 
haired  old  man  with  kindly  twinkling 
eyes.  He  wore  a  small  round  felt  hat, 
which  neither  Sally's  presence  nor 
mine  had  dislodged,  a  crumpled  stiff 
shirt  front  and  a  white  cotton  hand- 
kerchief in  lieu  of  a  collar.  Being 
lame,  a  heavy  walking  stick  reposed 
upon  the  table.  It  served  as  a 
paper  weight,  and  later,  when  pro- 
ceedings grew  lively,  as  a  gavel. 

Dean  was  on  one  side  of  him, 
Barker  on  the  other.  The  sun 
poured  down  upon  them,  the  flies 
buzzed  noisily,  the  heat  was  suf- 
focating. 

One  could  not  but  contrast  the 
general  discomfort  and  ugliness,  and 
the  fires  of  greed  and  hate  and  mur- 
der lurking  near,  with  the  days 


before,  under  God's  roof  where  the 
soul  could  feel  its  eternal  beauty. 

At  five  minutes  past  two,  the 
little  mild-mannered  judge  laid  aside 
his  hat,  a  signal  that  he  had  assumed 
the  role  of  "yer  honour"  and  in  a 
rough  and  ready  way  the  wheels 
of  justice  started.  A  jury  of  six  was 
impanelled.  Dean's  first  question  to 
each, ''Are  you  a  Woodman?"  met 
with  an  invariable  "Yes."  Then 
on  one  pretext  or  another  he  en- 
deavoured to  exclude  the  man  as 
juror.  I  was  puzzled  at  this  until 
Bobbie  whispered: 

"Cap'n  is  a  Woodman  and  they 
have  all  rallied  to  help  him  out. 
He's  evidently  popular." 

"What  is  a  Woodman?" 

"One«  who  belongs  to  a  semi- 
secret  organization  out  here.  If  Nim- 
rod  loses,  it  will  reflect  on  Cap'n  and 
hurt  his  business.  Look  at  Dean, 
he's  furious.  The  whole  six  are 
Woodmen.  He  can't  help  it." 

The  case  proceeded  quietly.  The 
prosecution  presented  its  charges, 
that  of  killing  doe  and  fawn.  The 
judge  fussed  with  his  papers.  Mac- 
kenzie was  called  as  witness.  He  tes- 


tified  to  seeing  a  dead  fawn  skin  with  a 
bullet  hole  in  it  and  a  hornless  skull 
lying  in  our  camp.  Here  the  pros- 
ecution and  the  defence,  namely 
Dean  and  Barker,  fell  to  wrangling. 
It  finished  with  the  following  scene. 

Barker  to  Dean.  "  Perhaps  the 
learned  gentleman  for  the  prosecu- 
tion will  explain  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Court  the  difference  between  a  bear's 
skull  and  a  doe's  skull." 

Dean.  "It  is  not  necessary,  unless 
the  learned  gentleman  who  asked 
the  question,  needs  coaching." 

Barker.  "I  should  like  to  ask  if 
there  is  as  much  difference  as  between 
a  doe's  skull  and  a  human  skull." 

Dean,  darting  a  fiery  glance  at 
him,  but  controlling  himself:  "The 
gentleman  is  out  of  order,  your 
Honour." 

The  judge  ruled  that  he  was  and 
thumped  the  stick  upon  the  table 
twice  for  no  apparent  reason,  but 
I  began  to  perceive  a  subtle  change 
in  the  attitude  of  the  men  about  us. 
The  air  was  becoming  electric.  I 
recalled  that  Dean  had  killed  a  man, 
Cortwright  two  years  before,  in  a 
livery  stable  at  Golden,  shot  him 


in  the  back,  and  that  still  another 
murder  was  attributed  to  him. 

Barker  (changing  his  tack).  "The 
learned  gentleman  has  not  spent  all 
his  time  in  the  mountains?  He  has 
lived  in  a  town — Golden,  perhaps?" 

Dean  (savagely).  "Yes,  I  lived  at 
Golden.  What's  that  got  to  do 
with  the  case?" 

Barker  (persuasively).  "Perhaps he 
kept  a  livery  stable  there — about 
two  years  ago?" 

Dean  (defiantly,  squaring  toward 
his  tormentor — the  witness,  the  case 
in  hand  was  forgotten).  "Yes,  I  kept 
a  livery  stable  two  years  ago.  What 
is  that  to  you?" 

Every  man  now  was  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  his  seat.  One  juror  who 
was  immediately  back  of  Dean  fas- 
tened his  eyes  on  that  man's  right 
arm  and  gathered  himself  together 
as  a  cat  does  before  a  spring.  Still, 
I  did  not  quite  comprehend. 

Barker  (in  a  smooth  voice).  "And 
left  it  for  good  reasons?" 

Dean  (in  a  tone  not  pleasant  to 
hear).  "And  left  it  for  good  reasons." 

Barker.  "Did  you  ever  hear  of  a 
man  named  Cortwright?" 


206 


IX.. 


Dean.  "To  hell  with  you,  you 
infernal  scoundrel,"  and  suddenly 
a  dozen  things  happened.  Dean's 
hand  flew  to  his  right  hip  pocket. 
The  juror  from  behind  pounced  on 
him  and  knocked  him  to  the  floor, 
every  man  was  on  his  feet,  the 
judge's  stick  came  down  on  the 
table.  ' '  Order — order  in  the  Court. ' ' 

The  sheriff  sprang  forward,  re- 
volver in  hand,  Dean  regained  his 
feet,  cursing  under  his  breath.  Again 
the  judge's  gavel-cane  descended 
sonorously  and  his  piping  voice  com- 
manded "Order,  or  the  sheriff  must 
do  his  duty." 

Dean,  his  face  ashy  pale,  stood 
shaking  his  head  like  a  lion  at  bay; 
an  instant's  intense  silence,  then 
with  a  visible  effort  he  regained 
self-control. 

Dean.  "I  beg  your  Honour's  par- 
don. The  gentleman  of  the  de- 
fence is  a  white-livered  hell-hound. 
He  is  trying  to  derogate  the 
character  of  the  counsel  for  the 
prosecution. " 

Barker  attempted  to  speak.  The 
Judge  checked  him. 

11  Gentlemen    will   please   lay    all 


weapons  on  the  table — Sheriff ! ' '  The 
sheriff  made  the  rounds  and  col- 
lected four  revolvers.  The  judge, 
who  had  also  risen  in  the  excitement, 
resumed  his  seat  of  justice.  With 
a  strong  undercurrent  of  bad  blood 
which  might  yet  be  spilled,  the  case 
proceeded.  Dean  made  his  points, 
a  clever  fabric,  the  dead  fawn,  the 
hornless  skull,  the  dead  doe  on  the 
mountain,  evidently  devoured  by 
Lion  afterwards,  and  much  extraneous 
confusing  detail. 

Barker  broke  down  the  case  by 
presenting  the  truth  as  he  saw  it. 
The  counsel  for  the  prosecution 
summed  up  briefly  and  then  Barker 
arose.  It  was  his  golden  hour.  For 
twenty-five  minutes  by  the  watch 
he  let  off  what  Nimrod  afterwards 
called  "his  natural  gas." 

He  began  slowly: 

"Yer  Honour,  gentlemen  of  the 
jury.  You  have  been  gathered  here 
from  your  tasks  of  honourable  em- 
ployment to  witness  a  stupendous 
piece  of  wilful  persecution.  This 
monumental  and  egregious  error 
has  been  perpertrated  by  one  who 
by  his  noble  office  should  ever 


208 


uphold  as  on  the  shoulders  of  the 
populace  the  worthy  laws  of  this 
magnificent  State  of  Idaho.  (He 
gathered  breath)  Idaho,  the  brightest 
gem  in  our  great  nation's  diadem. 

"What  man  among  you — what 
man  among  you,  I  say,  would  be  so 
blind  to  the  calls  of  our  divine 
Columbia  to  let  for  a  single  fraction 
of  time  the  shadow  of  suspicion, 
after  listening  to  the  evidence  here 
shown  to-day,  that  the  stranger 
at  our  doors  could  have  been  guilty 
of  such  conduct  as  he  has  herewith 
been  charged.  What  man  so  lost 
to  the  powers  of  reason,  whereby 
he  shows  his  divine  origin,  and 
supremacy  over  the  lower  animals" 
— his  voice  rose  in  crescendo  and 
with  a  grand  action  his  right  arm 
shot  up  and  sawed  the  air  with  the 
gesture  known  as  wind-mill,  his  left 
flung  back  the  flap  of  his  ready 
made  coat  revealing  a  label,  so  that 
all  might  read  "The  Fair.  $7.98." 

It  was  the  finish  touch  for  Sally. 
"Oh  look,  didn't  I  tell  you  it  came 
from  Chicago?" 

All  oblivious  of  the  real  cause  of 
the  very  evident  impression  he  was 


making,  roller  after  roller  of  Barker 
eloquence  broke  upon  the  rocky 
shore  of  his  Eastern  audience.  But 
the  jury  was  visibly  impressed.  One 
time  my  face  grew  very  red  and  the 
shrimp  pink  reflection  had  made 
it  red  enough  before. 

"Torn  from  the  loving  arms  of  a 
beauteous  wife  like  a  common  criminal 
he  was  snatched  away  from  honour 
and  love  and  position  and  credit 
and  all  that  he  had  wrested  from 
the  world's  grasp.  Picture  the  poor 
young  wife,  deprived  of  her  tender 
and  loving  partner,  alone  in  the 
mountains,  away  from  her  home 
and  her  dear  friends,  weeping  cop- 
iously, pale  and  feeble  and  sick,  en- 
during agonies  of  dread  and  fear." 

Eyes  unconsciously  travelled  to 
where  I  sat  in  the  full  glow  of 
health,  looking  uncommonly  com- 
fortable. Vainly  I  tried  at  such 
short  notice  to  become  pale,  cower- 
ing, fearful,  sick  and  tormented. 

But  unabated  the  volume  of  the 
orator's  words  flowed  on,  carrying 
with  it  all  the  debris  of  his  memory. 
He  finished  with  a  peroration  in 
which  the  glories  of  the  nation  past 


210 


and  present  were  in-woven  with 
the  stars  and  stripes  of  the  noble 
flag,  and  the  eagle  screamed  tri- 
umphant. 

He  sat  down  mopping  his  brow, 
the  jury  filed  out  and  in  five  minutes 
filed  back  again  with  a  unanimous 
verdict:  "Not  Guilty:' 

Dean,  by  far  the  more  intelligent 
of  the  two  counsels  but  with  human 
kindness  turned  to  bitterness,  the 
mark  of  Cain  upon  him,  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  muttered  that  he 
"would  get  even"  with  Barker,  and 
stalked  alone  from  the  court  room. 

I  sent  a  thought  of  sympathy  and 
certain  admiration  after  him.  He 
was  so  undoubtedly  one  with  a  chip 
on  his  shoulder,  a  man  against 
whom  every  hand  was  raised.  His 
own  doing.  He  met  the  uplifted 
hand  with  sullen  bravery  and  asked 
no  quarter. 

Heavy  weights  sink  to  the  bottom, 
and  the  grappling  in  this  legal  pool 
had  troubled  only  the  surface.  But 
tragedy  had  hovered  above  the  rude, 
bare  court  room — shadows  of  the 
murdered  Fox  and  Cortwright,  and 
the  uncertain  fate  of  Dean  and 


Barker,    that   feud   being   but   just 
begun. 

Gladly  we  scuttled  out  of  town, 
and  leaving  the  Tevi  facing  east  at 
the  railroad,  fifty  miles  distant,  we 
sought  cover  among  the  Red  Men, 
until  the  winged  words  of  the  'special 
correspondent'  (who  meant  us  no 
harm,  merely  business)  had  ceased 
to  buzz  over  our  particular  morsel 
of  Yellow  food, 


XL 

ON     THE     ROSEBUD — PLENTY     COUPS* 
PEACE-PIPE 

HEN  Nimrod  and  I  ar- 
rived at  the  Crow  Agen- 
cy, the  first  picturesque 
figure  to  catch  our  eye 
was  Whiteswan,  or,  to 
be  more  accurate,  what 
is  left  of  Whiteswan  after  the  Custer 
Battle ;  for  now  he  is  chiefly  memories 
and  one  sound  leg.  He  has,  to  be 
sure,  a  bullet-shattered  right  arm  and 
two  remaining  limbs  semi-paralysed, 
which  in  his  portraits  of  himself, 
he  very  properly  disregards.  White- 
swan  has  passed  from  a  great 
brave  in  war  time,  to  being  the 


2I4 


chronicler  of  his  tribe  in  peace.  Like 
many  another,  he  has  laid  down  the 
gun  for  the  pen,  and,  following  in 
the  path  trod  by  the  worthy  Cellini, 
the  glory  of  his  deeds  has  lost  none 
in  the  telling. 

Pictograph  is  the  Indian  written 
language,  as  originally  it  was  ours. 
But  we  have  long  since  evolved  "S" 
from  a  striking  serpent  that  hisses  and 
'  'M"  from  the  crude  outline  of  a  cow's 
head  saying  "  Moo,"  while  the  Indian, 
well-contented,  has  continued  to  fol- 
low the  customs  of  his  ancestors, 
knowing  not  the  unchanging  name 
of  a  tree  but  the  look  of  it  in  all 
weathers  and  all  seasons.  His  own 
barometer,  compass,  architect,  food- 
provider  and  defender,  he  needs  none 
of  the  complicated  civilised  machin- 
ery, and  his  library  is  always  spread 
before  him.  Hence  the  pictograph 
serves  sufficiently  well  now,  as  in 
the  Stone  Age. 

Through  an  interpreter  I  asked 
Don't-walk-on-top  if  the  Indians 
had  any  jokes,  whereupon  he  drew, 
amid  much  chuckling  among  the  by- 
standers, one  of  the  old  reliablesfrom 
the  stock-in-trade  of  the  human  race, 


WHITESWAN-A  PORTRAIT  BY  HIMSELF 


regardless  of  colour  or  country.  He 
called  it  "Two  squaws  scolding  their 
husbands  for  being  out  all  night."  I 
refer  this  drawing  to  the  Art  students 
as  it  appears  to  contain  a  valuable 
suggestion — If  hands  are  difficult, 
don't  draw  hands.  Or  as  in  the 
record  of  Exploits  by  Whiteswan, 
if  an  incident  is  to  be  disconnected 
from  others  on  the  same  page,  turn 
it  upside  down.  Surely  such  a  so- 
lution would  occur  to  few,  but  it  is 
undeniably  effective. 

The  dominant  figure  among  the 
Absarokas  is  Plenty  Coups,  the  war 
chief.  He  finds  the  pictograph  quite 
sufficient  for  his  needs  in  running 
a  country  store.  Why  keep  an 
elaborate  set  of  books  with  double, 
redouble  (pardon)  entry,  and  a 
staff  of  mathematicians,  when  a 
ledger  like  the  following  serves 
every  purpose?  A  mark  is  put 
for  every  dollar,  a  long  mark 
for  every  tenth  dollar  and  a  pic- 
ture above  to  denote  the  owner. 
When  the  account  is  cancelled  it  is 
rubbed  out.  Why  have  a  burden- 
some file  to  remind  one  of  "has 
beens"?  The  ingenuity  of  Plenty 


Coups' s  drawings  shows  his  inheri- 
tance in  the  pictographic  art. 

How  many,  off  hand,  would  be  able 
to  depict  with  a  few  strokes  "He 
Rides  on  Top"  (5)  or  an  "Old 
Woman  Otter"  (4)  or  "The  Other 
Buffalo"  (i)  or  a  "Small."  This  last, 
simple  enough,  an  arrow  placed  in  the 
hand  for  comparison  of  size.  Won- 
derfully simple — when  one  knows 
how. 

Our  introduction  to  Plenty  Coups 
was  effected  by  Whiteswan  and  upon 
this  occasion  another  side  of  the 
Indian  simplicity  was  forced  upon 
us.  Happy  people  to  whom  the  germ 
theory  has  not  yet  penetrated!  Not 
a  thought  do  they  give  whether  there 
be  one  or  five  million  bacteria  in 
their  food,  or  utensils.  The  principal 
social  ceremony,  that  of  smoking 
the  peace  pipe,  is  the  epitome  of  in- 
difference to  microbes  good,  bad  or 
neutral.  Squaws,  striplings,  and  un- 
feathered  braves  are  not  allowed  to 
participate  in  smoking  the  peace  pipe, 
so  when  this  honour  was  offered  to 
me,  a  paleface  squaw,  my  courtesy 
and  prudence  had  a  severe  strain. 

Chief  Plenty  Coups's  village  where 


Plenty-Otters 


beholds  rude  court,  is  about  four  miles 
from  the  Agency  where  his  trading 
store  is  located.  At  council  and  on 
gala  occasions  he  wears  his  great 
warbonnet  made  of  eagle  feathers, 
one  for  each  deed  of  valour,  or  coup. 
The  string  trails  faf  on  the  ground, 
and  it  was  the  great  number  of  these 
that  gave  cause  for  his  name,  Plenty 
Coups.  He  is  a  born  leader;  his  men- 
tal equipment  and  executive  powers 
would  have  spelled  success  in  any 
walk  of  life,  and  now,  convinced  of 
the  hopelessness  of  struggling  against 
such  overwhelming  odds  as  the  pale- 
faces possess,  he  has  accepted  their 
way  and  taken  successfully  to  com- 
merce. 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  on  a  very 
black  night,  which  had  enabled  us  to 
lose  the  road  twice,  when  we  finally 
reached  the  Chief's  teepee  and  waited 
without,  while  Whiteswan  announced 
our  arrival.  The  Council  was  about 
to  begin.  As  Whiteswan  opened  the 
flap  for  us  to  enter,  the  heavy  air  of 
many  unwashed  people  in  the  twenty- 
foot  teepee  made  me  elect  to  stay 
near  the  door,  thereby  gaining  credit 
for  modesty  (it  is  not  seemly  for  a 


222 


squaw  to  be  too  bold)  and  doubtless 
contributing  to  the  honour  that  the 
future  held.  The  braves  were  seated 
cross-legged  in  a  wide  circle  around 
the  fire.  Plenty  Coups  in  the  seat 
of  honour  opposite  the  door,  the 
chiefs  next  in  standing  were  on  each 
side  of  him  and  so  on  till  the  circle 
was  completed  by  the  paleface 
visitors.  In  groups  back  of  the  coun- 
cillours  stood  squaws,  children, 
youths  and  various  disqualifieds.  I 
was  the  only  woman  seated,  the 
Chief  having  graciously  motioned 
me  to  do  so.  No  English  was  used, 
not  a  syllable;  in  fact,  hardly  any 
Absaroka,  the  whole  ceremony  was 
performed  in  the  sign  language,  of 
which  Nimrod  knew  a  good  deal  and 
I  a  smattering. 

By  gesture  Chief  Plenty  Coups 
said  that  he  was  pleased  to  welcome 
the  distinguished  stranger  who  loved 
the  animals  and  understood  the  wild 
things,  and  pleased  to  greet  his 
squaw. 

Then  Nimrod  arose.  He  ex- 
pressed himself  that  for  three  sleeps 
we  had  travelled  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  the  distinguished 


•5? 


Plenty  Coups,  etc.  (I  longed  for  a 
moving  picture  of  him  in  action.) 
When  Nimrod  had  finished  his  pan- 
tomine,  a  squaw  brought  the  peace 
pipe,  and  handed  it  to  Plenty  Coups, 
another  squaw  filled  it  and  by  means 
of  two  sticks,  brought  a  live  coal  from 
the  fire,  our  only  illumination.  Ma- 
jestically and  in  absolute  silence 
the  Chief  smoked  the  time  immemo- 
rial emblem,  in  this  case  a  sandstone 
carved  bowl  and  a  twisted  wooden 
stem  two  feet  long,  much  painted, 
beaded  and  feathered.  At  last  it 
appeared  to  be  drawing  well ;  he  arose 
and  blew  four  smokes,  to  the  four 
Great  Winds  or  Spirits.  First  to  the 
East,  the  beginning  of  all  things, 
then  to  the  North,  the  South,  last  to 
the  West,  the  end  of  all  things. 
Silently  he  sat  again  upon  his  fur 
robe  and  passed  the  lighted  pipe  to 
the  right  hand  chief,  Grey  Wolf, 
who  repeated  the  ceremony  with 
equal  solemnity  and  handed  the 
pipe  to  Whiteswan,  on  Plenty  Coups' s 
left.  Slowly  in  this  manner  the  pipe 
progressed  zigzag  down  the  line. 
I  fell  to  counting  how  many  mouths 
it  would  have  entered  before  it  came 


226 


to  Nimrod,  providing  he  was  to  be 
favoured — twenty-three!  poor  Nim- 
rod !  I  had  not  even  the  satisfaction 
of  offering  him  some  antiseptic  lip 
salve,  by  chance  in  my  pocket,  as 
the  silence  was  so  obvious,  I  had  not 
the  courage  to  break  it.  As  the 
twelfth  brave  sat  down  Plenty  Coups 
indicated  that  he  thought  it  was  pro- 
per for  the  distinguished  paleface  and 
his  squaw  to  join  the  ceremony. 
So  the  evil-smelling  thing  came  our 
way  and  Nimrod  arose  and  did  his 
duty. 

I  was  in  a  quandary.  It  was  con- 
trary to  all  custom  and  a  very  great 
honour  to  include  me,  but  the  Chief 
surely  had  made  the  sign  of  long  hair, 
which  means  squaw.  Still  when  Nim- 
rod proffered  the  pipe  I  hesitated, 
but  Plenty  Coups  left  no  room  for 
doubt.  ' '  The  Great  Spirit  will  accept 
greeting  from  the  paleface  squaw." 

That  pipe  was  the  nastiest  tasting 
and  smelling  thing  that  ever  got  into 
an  unwilling  mouth.  The  tobacco 
was  rank,  the  mouthpiece,  of  course, 
had  done  yeoman  service.  I  man- 
aged to  salute  the  East — why  were 
there  so  many  points  to  the  compass  ? 


— the  North  and  South  got  smoke 
tears  as  well  as  smoke.  Well,  at  least 
the  West  was  the  end  of  all  things. 
I  sat  down  feeling  that  I  had  earned 
a  brevet  from  the  diplomatic  service, 
and  as  soon  as  possible  sought  the 
air. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  place  the 
blame  for  the  indescribable  taste 
of  that  pipe;  to  be  sure  I  am  not  a 
second  Mrs.  Buchanan  and  I  had 
never  smoked  a  pipe  before,  so  it 
may  have  been  any  one  or  all  of 
those  twelve  braves,  or  it  may  have 
been  the  innumerable  previous  cere- 
monies, or  the  poor  tobacco.  Well, 
it  is  a  bygone.  The  moon  had  burst 
through  the  clouds  and  the  ride 
back  to  Crow  Agency  was  delightful, 
and  before  the  Dog  Dance,  two  days 
later,  I  was  quite  able  to  discriminate 
between  vinegar  and  mustard  and 
appreciate  the  graciousness  of  that 
majestic  old  man  with  his  feather- 
ful  record  of  exploits  and  his  dignified 
acceptance  of  national  defeat.  Long 
may  he  couch  on  sage  brush,  talk  in 
sign  language  and  write  in  picto- 
graph !  Civilisation  has  nothing  to 
teach  him. 


AT  THE  FEAST  OF  THE  DOG  DANCE — • 
THE  WAY  OF  ARABELLA  HORSE- 
TAIL 

|NCE  an  Indian,  always 
an  Indian.  No  matter 
how  the  "Great  White 
Father ' '  may  pinch  and 
pound  the  clay,  its 
shape  may  alter,  it  is 
It  was  at  the  Feast 
of  the  Dog  Dance  that  I  realised 
this  in  learning  the  story  of  Arabella 
Horsetail. 


still  red  clay 


The  three  o'clock  recess  bell  had 
not  stopped  sounding  when  a  figure 
in  brown  calico,  sprigged  with  white, 


stole  out  of  the  schoolyard  gate 
and  sped  along  the  road  to  the  rail- 
way station.  The  west-bound  train 
passed  an  hour  before,  so  the  place 
was  deserted,  and  Arabella  Horse- 
tail crossed  the  tracks  unobserved 
and  away  up  the  hill,  where  a  turn 
in  the  road  hid  her  from  sight  of  the 
tiny  settlement,  which  the  Whiteman 
calls  Crow  Agency.  On  sped  the 
flying  feet  over  the  pathless  arid 
waste  to  a  group  of  trees  a  mile  away, 
the  only  ones  in  sight.  They  marked 
a  sudden  crack  in  the  ground,  as 
though  God  had  scooped  out  the 
place  with  His  finger  that  some 
green  thing  might  find  moisture, 
and  live.  Six  trees  only  had  dared 
to  rear  themselves  in  this  gully,  and 
their  shapes  could  be  seen  from  afar, 
the  more  so  as  strange  objects  marred 
the  symmetry  of  their  outline- 
oblong  shaped  bundles  of  bright 
coloured  blankets,  wound  from  end 
to  end  with  buckskin  thongs  and 
securely  strapped  to  the  branches; 
for  these  were  the  Manakes-ees,  the 
trees  of  the  Absaroka  dead. 

The  girl  sped  to  the  last  lone  tree, 
where  memory  said,  her  mother  had 


231 


been  placed  six  years  before.  In- 
stinctively she  went,  with  unseeing 
eyes,  and  flung  herself  at  full  length 
on  the  bunch  grass  beneath  it.  Her 
mind  was  in  a  whirl.  Wild  rebellion 
filled  her  thoughts.  The  ways  of 
the  Whitemen  were  past  bearing- 
how  she  hated  them!  They 
had  snatched  her  away  from  the 
happy  careless  life  of  her  people 
when  she  was  a  roly  poly  babe  of 
five.  For  ten  years  they  had  made 
her  wake,  sleep  and  eat  at  their 
bidding,  had  coaxed  and  coerced 
her  to  learn  their  manners,  their 
customs,  their  ideas,  until  civilisa- 
tion hung  upon  her  like  a  badly 
fitting  garment  that  hid  her  good 
points  and  showed  her  bad  ones. 
And  now,  so  pleased  are  they  with 
their  work,  they  are  going  to  send  her 
to  Carlisle,  the  Whiteman's  college  for 
Indians,  and  for  three  more  years 
there  would  be  no  escape — unless 
she  married.  Why  should  they 
think  their  ways,  their  religion,  so 
much  better  than  those  of  her  people  ? 
"They  have  taught  me,"  she  thought 
proudly,  "to  think  in  their  language, 
but  they  cannot  teach  me  to  think 


their  thoughts,  for  I  am  Indian,  an 
Absaroka,  and  come  from  a  great 
people,  who  would  .rather  walk  on 
the  great  broad  earth  that  belongs 
to  all,  than  on  a  carpet  made  by 
one  man,  owned  by  another  and 
coveted  by  a  hundred.  Ugh!  I 
hate  them,  I  hate  their  civilisation. 
In  their  arrogance,  forcing  upon  us, 
the  weaker,  a  religion  upon  which 
they  cannot  agree  themselves.  They 
ask  us  to  give  up  our  way  of  bar- 
tering a  thing  we  don't  want  for  a 
thing  that  we  do,  and  learn  instead 
their  love  of  money,  though  all  the 
time  crying  that  it  is  the  curse  of  the 
world.  They  have  brought  us  whis- 
key and  cigarettes.  What  do  they 
offer  us  in  exchange  for  the  bright 
sun-heat,  the  wild  glad  rain,  the 
mountain  top,  the  crystal  stream, 
the  everlasting  plain,  for  the  rich  red 
blood  coursing  through  our  veins,  for 
the  love  of  nature,  whether  her  moods 
be  stern  or  gay? 

''What  is  their  civilisation?  Do 
they  pretend  that  it  will  make  us 
happier?  Look  at  my  people  to- 
day !  This  is  what  they  would  force 
upon  me,  their  man-made  clothes, 


their  man-made  God.  And  because 
they  are  many  and  my  people  few, 
they  say,  'We  are  right;  do  as  we 
do  or  die' — and  we  die. 

"They  killed  my  mother  when 
they  tore  me  from  her  arms,  her 
one  ewe  lamb.  'Manita,  Manita,  I 
cannot  live  without  you!'  I  can 
hear  her  last  cry  now,  so  long  ago, 
before  Grey  Wolf  and  Whiteswan 
laid  her  away  up  there.  'Manita!' 
Oh  mother — and  they  call  me  Ara- 
bella Horsetail!  Ugh,  I  hate  them! " 

Manita  sprang  to  her  feet  with 
clenched  hands,  flaming  cheeks,  and 
arms  uplifted  toward  the  tree.  She 
suddenly  became  aware  of  her  sur- 
roundings. The  tree  where  her 
mother  had  lain  so  long  was  empty, 
and  on  the  ground,  not  six  feet  from 
where  Manita  had  been  lying,  was  a 
long  bundle  with  thongs  cut  and 
wrappings  undone,  and  protruding 
from  the  mass  of  blankets  was  the 
shrivelled,  mummified  remains  of — 
her  mother. 

She  stood  for  a  long  time  stunned, 
gazing  at  the  awful  spectacle.  Then 
with  a  little  shake,  she  began  to  think 
again,  but  slowly  and  with  difficulty 


Coyotes — tore — it — down — per- 
haps— No,  no,  the  thongs — were— 
cut — with  a  knife. ' '  She  approached 
shrinkingly. 

"Her  rings — armlets  and  necklace 
are    gone — she    has    been    robbed! 
The  White  Devils  have  done  this— 
they    have    robbed    my    mother— 
they  have  despoiled  the  dead !" 

She  felt  numb.  She  could  only 
repeat  with  wearying  monotony, 
'They  killed  her— they  killed  her!" 
After  a  while  the  voice  in  her  ears 
said  instead:  "They  robbed  her  in 
life  and  in  death." 

The  peculiar  odour  from  the 
corpse  added  to  her  horror.  Then 
something  snapped  in  her  brain. 
She  sank  in  a  heap  beside  her 
mother,  and  went  floating  off  into 
space  in  a  swirling,  throbbing 
darkness. 

It  was  dawn  the  next  morning 
when  Sharpnose  and  Whiteleg,  herd- 
ing cattle  on  the  range,  passed  the 
Manakes  trees  and  noticed  some 
unusual  objects  under  the  south 
bank  of  the  gully.  They  rode  up  to 
see  what  they  were. 


235 


Their  approach  awakened  Manita, 
who  had  passed  from  her  swoon  into 
the  sleep  of  youth,  and  was  much 
refreshed.  The  curses  of  Sharpnose 
and  Whiteleg  as  they  replaced  the 
dead  in  a  crotch  of  the  tree  and 
lashed  it  firmly  with  Sharpnose's 
lariat,  told  Manita  that  her  mother 
would  be  avenged,  and  her  thoughts 
took  a  more  personal  bent.  The 
rebellion  in  her  heart  was  ten  times 
stronger  than  yesterday,  but  she 
no  longer  wanted  to  take  White- 
leg's  bright  sharp  knife  and  plunge 
it  into  the  heart  of  Mr.  Warwick, 
the  missionary  and  teacher  of  the 
school.  To  kill  him  would  mean  to 
die  too.  The  arms  of  the  White 
Government  are  long  and  many, 
and  merciless — and  she  wanted  to 
be  free,  to  get  away  from  it  all,  to 
live  the  life  of  her  people,  the  life 
to  which  she  was  born. 

An  Indian  woman  is,  according 
to  the  Whiteman's  law,  a  ward  of 
the  Government— in  the  Agent's  pow- 
er— until  eighteen,  or  until  married, 
and  admitted  to  be  marriageable 
at  fifteen.  Here  was  the  loop-hole. 
She  had  no  wish  to  be  married,  but 


she  was  fifteen  and  she  saw  a  chance 
for  escape,  if—  — . 

As  she  stood  facing  the  rising  sun, 
waiting  for  Sharpnose  and  White- 
leg  to  restore  to  its  place  the  out- 
raged dead,  a  plan  was  slowly 
forming  in  her  mind.  The  great, 
fiery  ball  was  well  up  in  the  horizon 
when  the  two  men  approached  her, 
leading  the  horses. 

Ah-heh-et-seh,  Sharpnose,  the  fam- 
ous hunter,  was  lithe,  sinewy,  grace- 
ful, with  clear  coppery  skin  and 
handsome  face. 

It-tas-da-chirsch,  Whiteleg,  was 
thickset,  with  heavy,  stolid  features 
to  which  smiles  and  flashes  of  pleas- 
ure were  little  known. 

Manita  sighed.  She  would  have 
preferred  Sharpnose,  but  he  was 
married,  and  would  not  do.  Turning 
to  Whiteleg  she  said,  "Will  you 
take  back  me  to  the  school?  Your 
horse  will  carry  double." 

Sharpnose,  with  a  nod  of  goodbye, 
flung  himself  into  the  saddle  and 
galloped  away.  Whiteleg  silently 
mounted  his  horse  and  notwith- 
standing that  animal's  objections, 
vigorously  expressed,  drew  Manita 


up  behind  him  and  started  madly 
careering  for  the  Agency.  But  the 
horse  soon  gave  in  to  the  sharp 
bit  and  settled  to  a  walk.  Manita 
had  her  arms  around  Whiteshirt's 
waist,  holding  on.  Her  brain  was 
busy.  Suddenly  she  spoke. 

"  It-tas-da-chirsch,  they  are  going 
to  send  me  to  Carlisle." 

A  grunt  came  from  in  front. 

"I  hate  them." 

Whiteleg  nodded. 

"I  won't  go." 

Silence  in  front. 

"It-tas-da-chirsch,  I  won't  go,  I 
won't  go  and  you  must  help  me." 
The  arm  around  his  body  tightened 
into  a  squeeze,  and  Manita's  lips 
were  close  to  his  cheek.  "There  is 
but  one  way  to  escape  the  White 
Devils.  I  must  marry  in  my  tribe; 
Whiteleg,  will  you  marry  me?" 

There  was  no  response,  so  Manita 
hurried  on.  ' '  We  won't  really  marry, 
you  know.  Only  make  believe,  ac- 
cording to  the  Whiteman's  ceremony 
and  their  God,  and  we  would  go 
away  to  your  teepee.  Wah-pu-ta, 
your  mother,  would  help  us,  and 
on  the  next  Sunday,  at  the  meeting 


of  our  people,  you  can  divorce  me 
—according  to  our  law — and  I  shall 
be  free!  It  won't  be  much  trouble 
for  you.  Whiteleg,"  she  said,  per- 
suasively "Will  you?'* 

Whiteleg  shook  his  head  and 
grunted.  The  nearness  of  the  girl 
confused  him. 

"But  remember  my  mother,  re- 
member the  years  I  have  been  a 
slave,  remember  what  they  have 
done  to  our  people.  Remember  Pine 
Leaf — how  they  sent  her  to  Carlisle. 
They  said  she  was  so  bright  and 
clever  and  so  adaptable,  that  was 
the  word,  and  how,  when  she  gradu- 
ated there  was  no  place  in  the  world 
for  her.  The  Whites  would  not 
take  her  into  their  hearts  and  homes 
just  because  she  wore  high-heeled 
boots  and  carried  a  parasol  and 
spoke  grammatical  English.  They 
might  welcome  her  as  an  'interesting 
development,'  but  receive  her  as  a 
sister,  daughter,  wife?  Never.  She 
was  too  Indian.  And  we,  you  re- 
member how  we  despised  her,  how 
we  turned  our  backs  upon  her  be- 
cause she  had  forsaken  her  people. 
She  was  too  English  for  us.  There 


was  no  place  for  her,  so  she  gave 
herself  to  the  Manakes-ees  and  now 
she  lies  buried  on  the  Custer  Trail. 
Whiteleg,  I  shall  be  like  Pine 
Leaf.  No,  no!  I  will  not  go!  I 
want  to  live  with  my  people,  and 
be  free.  It-tas-da-chirsch,  won't  you  ? 
and,"  she  added,  cunningly,  well 
knowing  the  man  before  her,  ' '  it  will 
make  Mr.  Warwick  very  sad,  for 
he  will  think  we  have  insulted  his 
God  and  his  people,  and  when  he 
sees  how  little  we  care  and  all  are 
laughing  at  him  he  will  gnash  his 
teeth.  He  will  hate  us,  and  we  will 
be  like  thorns  in  his  feet;  will  you?" 
A  slight  pause  "and  I  will  give  you 
my  pony  that  Whiteswan  is  keeping 
for  me — will  you?" 

Then  the  Indian  spoke. 

"Ugh!  I  hate  the  Whitemen.  When 
shall  it  be?  I'll  take  pony." 

Manita's  delight,  was  barely  re- 
strained, and  the  man  began  to 
enjoy  the  situation.  They  were 
nearing  the  settlement  and  Manita 
poured  her  plan  into  her  res- 
cuer's ears.  He  listened  with 
occasional  grunts,  until  he  drew 
rein  before  the  school-yard  gate, 


and    the    girl    slid    lightly 
ground. 

Two  weeks  later  the  inhabitants  of 
the  handful  of  houses  that  comprised 
the  Crow  Agency  were  in  a  state  of  wild 
excitement.  Arabella  Horsetail  was  to 
be  married  that  morning  to  Mont- 
gomery Whiteleg — the  Montgom- 
ery dating  from  the  week  before, 
when  the  Indian  had  submitted  to 
being  baptised  and  christened,  any 
English  name  taken  at  random,  on 
which  occasion  Mr.  Warwick  ignored 
the  fact  that  although  Whiteleg 
knew  a  good  deal  of  English,  he 
took  no  part  in  this  ceremony,  ex- 
cept through  an  interpreter,  and 
thanked  God  that  His  "poor  servant 
had  been  the  means  of  bringing  to 
the  fold  another  of  those  benighted 
children,  and  that  He  in  His  provi- 
dence, had  thus  miraculously  inter- 
ceded to  change  the  heart  of  the 
unregenerate,  so  that  disgrace  might 
not  fall  upon  one  already  in  the  f old. ' ' 

In  fact  Arabella  Horsetail  had 
found  the  way  of  her  marriage 
with  Whiteleg  remarkably  smooth. 
When  she  had  walked  into  the 
missionary's  room  at  the  school  after 


241 


that  memorable  night  and  announced 
her  intention  of  marrying  Whiteleg 
Mr.  Warwick  had  ejaculated  ' '  Thank 
God,  who  is  merciful  to  the  sinner!" 
And  after  sending  a  message  to  recall 
the  search  party  that  had  set  out 
the  night  before  to  look  for  Arabella 
he  had  talked  very  solemnly  to  her 
about  the  sacredness  of  marriage 
and  the  terrible  punishment  of  those 
who  live  in  sin,  and  advised  her  to 
convert  Whiteleg  so  that  an  early 
union  could  be  effected. 

His  reproaches  for  running  away, 
she  took  in  silence,  and  life  for  the 
next  few  days  went  on  as  before. 
Neither  conspirator  had  thought  of 
the  necessity  of  the  Christianising  of 
Whiteleg  before  the  missionary 
would  perform  the  ceremony,  and  it 
was  not  until  bribed  with  Arabella's 
painted  buffalo  robe,  an  heirloom  left 
by  her  mother,  that  It-tas-da-chirsch 
consented  to  become  Montgomery 
Whiteleg  and  nominally  a  Christian. 

It  was  while  hurrying  back  to  the 
schoolhouse  after  this  interview  that 
Manita  overheard  a  conversation 
which  unravelled  the  puzzle  of  her 
present  position. 


242 


She  was  passing  behind  the  hedge 
that  encircled  the  missionary's  gar- 
den, and  Mrs.  Warwick's  voice, 
musically  accompanied  by*  running 
water  in  the  irrigation  ditches  that 
redeemed  the  garden  from  the  sur- 
rounding waste,  was  saying  to  a 
group  of  Agency  people  there  as- 
sembled for  a  lazy  hour  before 
dinner: 

"Yes,  the  Indians  are  a  queer  peo- 
ple, and  they  do  not  civilise  easily. 
The  Government  has  to  admit  an- 
other failure  in  the  recent  disband- 
ment  of  the  last  Indian  Regiment." 

Capt.  Wilkins,  newly  installed  in 
command  of  the  Crow  Agency,  for- 
merly at  the  Cheyenne  remarked— 

"Oh,  they  are  a  good-for-nothing 
lot,  and  hopelessly  immoral." 

"Well,  I  cannot  agree  with  you  in 
that,"  Mrs.  Warwick  replied,  "or 
at  least  when  the  divine  influence  of 
religion  is  at  work.  Take  the  case  of 
Arabella  Horsetail.  The  naughty 
child  in  a  moment  of  rebellion  against 
some  petty  correction,  I  suppose, 
ran  away  from  school.  She  doubtless 
was  seen  and  followed  (or  it  mav 
have  been  planned)  by  the  dark- 


243 1 


browed  Indian,  Whiteleg.  They 
were  out  all  night,  but  early  next 
morning  he  brought  her  back,  both 
of  them  looking  as  unconscious  as 
could  be.  Of  course  it  was  dreadful, 
she  was  so  young,  although  quite 
old  enough,  according  to  their  notions, 
to  marry.  My  husband  could  get 
nothing  out  of  her  concerning  her 
night's  escapade  but  wild  stories  of 
faints  and  dead  trees,  to  which  of 
course,  he  paid  no  attention.  But 
he  felt  his  duty  in  the  matter  and  as 
delicately  as  possible  made  her  see 
her  immoral  position,  and  his  victory 
—thanks  to  the  All-wise  Power,  was 
easier  than  he  had  expected,  as 
Arabella  herself  proposed  marrying 
Whiteleg,  and  has  been  instru- 
mental in  bringing  him  into  the  fold 
of  the  Redeemed.  As  you  know,  the 
wedding  has  been  hurried  as  much  as 
possible  for  her  sake,  and  takes  place 
next  Sunday.  It  will  be  the  first 
Indian  wedding  sanctified  by  the 
church  and  Mr.  Warwick  feels  that 
he  has  not  laboured  in  vain.  So 
you  see,  my  dear  friends,  they  are 
not  quite  unredeemable." 

And  a  silvery  laugh  floated  over 


244 


the  hedge  and  lost  itself  in  the  water, 
as  Manita  stole  away  busy  with  the 
problem  that  has  worn  out  so  many, 
why  it  is  easier  to  believe  evil  than 
good. 

The  wedding  was  set  for  three. 
Already  the  morning  service  was 
over  and  Arabella  was  being  dressed 
in  a  white  frock  of  lawn,  well 
starched,  and  a  net  veil  that  had 
already  done  duty  as  a  window 
curtain  in  Mrs.  Warwick's  parlour. 
Manita  in  soft  buckskins  and  bead- 
ed moccasins,  with  hair  unbound, 
might  have  rivalled  Pocahontas  or 
Minnehaha;  but  Arabella  Horsetail 
in  a  tight  white  dress,  with  skirt  and 
sleeves  at  that  fatal  neither-long- 
nor- short  length,  in  clumsy  shoes, 
her  stiff  black  hair  screwed  into  a 
knot  behind,  and  the  blood  swept 
away  from  her  face  by  excitement, 
leaving  it  a  dull  gray  brown,  was 
depressingly  ugly. 

The  sun  glared  in  the  cloudless 
sky.  Arabella's  schoolmates  were 
already  fidgeting  in  their  seats  in 
the  chapel,  where  the  ceremony  was 
to  be  performed,  and  the  various 


245 


white  folk  of  the  Agency,  including 
ourselves  arrived,  when  word  was 
brought  to  the  waiting  bride-elect 
that  there  was  a  hitch  in  the  pro- 
ceedings. Montgomery  Whiteleg  re- 
fused to  have  his  hair  cut.  A 
simple  thing,  but  a  knife  upon  which 
nations  have  split.  To  the  Indian 
the  loss  of  his  hair  was  an  indignity, 
to  the  missionary,  the  refusal  to 
lose  it  a  sacrilege.  The  affair  was  at 
a  deadlock. 

When  the  situation  was  explained 
to  her,  Arabella  arose,  rushed  out  of 
the  school,  and,  her  white  veil  float- 
ing behind,  ran  along  the  road, 
around  the  corner  and  into  the 
trading  store,  where  Whiteleg,  the 
centre  of  a  group  of  men,  was  sitting 
savage  and  sullen.  He  looked  at  her 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes,  and 
then  seizing  her  hand  he  pulled  her 
into  the  street,  out  of  hearing  of 
the  men.  "The  White  Devil  goes 
too  far,"  he  muttered. 

"  It-tas-da-chirsch  promised  Man- 
ita,"  the  girl  said  simply.  Then  she 
added,  "My  three  ponies  and  my 
buffalo  robe  are  yours.  At  the 
Dog-dance  next  Sunday  it  will  be 


your  turn  to  throw  the  lasso  around 
Mr.  Warwick. " 

Whiteleg  turned  sullenly  to  the 
store  and  sat  down  again  in  the  chair. 
Arabella  motioned  to  Tom  Don't- 
walk-on-Top,  the  interpreter,  who 
was  also  barber,  and  then  sped 
back  to  the  school. 

Ten  minutes  later  Mr.  Warwick 
joined  these  two  according  to  the 
Episcopal  service  of  the  Christian 
religion,  Arabella  Horsetail  respond- 
ing in  English,  and  Montgomery 
Whiteleg  only  through  the  inter- 
preter. Then  came  the  congratula- 
tions. All  Arabella's  schoolmates 
kissed  her  good-bye,  and  looked  at 
her  with  big  wondering  eyes  that 
she  could  yet  seem  the  same  while 
she  must  be  so  different,  being  now 
married,  and  they  gladly  allowed  the 
problem  to  be  drowned  in  lemonade 
and  cake. 

As  soon  as  the  ceremony  was  over, 
Whiteleg  strode  from  the  building 
and  waited  in  front  under  a  tree 
for  Manita,  who  soon  appeared  in 
a  blue  and  white  calico  dress,  fol- 
lowed by  old  Wah-pu-ta,  ead 
carrying  a  big  bundle,  these 


comprising  all  of  Arabella's  worldly 
effects. 

When  Whiteleg  saw  them  he 
wrapped  his  blanket  around  him, 
thus  covering  his  'store  clothes,' 
and  empty-handed,  as  befits  a  brave, 
started  at  a  slow  pace  along  the  road 
to  his  wigwam,  some  two  miles  from 
the  settlement.  Manita  lifted  the 
bundle  to  her  head  and  followed 
him,  keeping  well  behind.  Wah- 
pu-ta  did  the  same,  and  in  this 
fashion  the  three  trailed  along  the 
hot,  dusty  road,  and  disappeared 
from  view. 

Manita  had  been  installed  in  her 
new  home  three  days  when  one  of 
the  events  occurred  which  are  so 
important  to  the  modern  Indian, 
the  monthly  issue  of  beef. 

By  sunrise  Whiteleg  mounted  one 
of  his  newly  acquired  ponies  and 
set  off  for  the  Agency.  He  was 
to  be  sentinel  that  day,  and  after 
riding  through  the  still  sleeping 
settlement,  he  climbed  a  high  hill 
to  the  south,  from  which  direction 
the  cattle  were  expected.  There  he 
remained  for  hours  seated  on  his 


horse,  a  mere  speck  breaking  the 
severe  line  of  the  hill  against  the 
horizon,  but  able  to  see  and  be  seen 
for  miles  on  either  side. 

Manita  and  Wah-pu-ta  also  were 
early  astir,  for  they  had  the  work 
of  the  modest  establishment  to  do. 
Wah-pu-ta  was  old  and  feeble,  and 
many  household  duties,  such  as 
carrying  water,  chopping  sticks  and 
loading  the  tethered  horses,  tasks 
quite  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  brave, 
had  been  reluctantly  assumed  by 
Whiteleg.  Manita,  since  her  com- 
ing, from  a  desire  to  be  useful  and 
not  to  be  a  burden  on  her  rescuers, 
had  performed  these  duties  and 
many  more,  and  Whiteleg  had 
found  it  very  pleasant  to  sit  in  the 
sun,  smoke  cigarettes  and  watch  her. 
During  his  long  hours  of  vigil,  the 
thought  continually  recurred  to  him 
that  his  teepee,  of  which  up  till  now 
he  had  been  barely  conscious,  had 
become  a  much  more  attractive 
place  than  it  was  last  week,  or 
last  month  with  only  Wah-pu-ta 
in  charge.  His  mind  slowly  and 
laboriously  worked  out  one  or  two 
clear  impressions  concerning  just 


what  part  he  should  play  at  the 
coming  Dog  Dance,  and  that  part 
would  not  be,  he  well  knew,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  will  of  Arabella 
Horsetail.  He  had  decided  that  Ara- 
bella was  good  enough  to  keep,  and 
that  instead  of  divorcing  her,  and 
thus  bringing  to  a  successful  termina- 
tion this  farce,  he  would  at  Dog 
Dance  marry  Manita,  the  daughter 
of  Seatiss,  the  Wolf. 

Meantime  Manita,  unconscious  of 
the  cloud  threatening  her  darling 
wish  to  be  free  as  the  birds  and 
responsible  to  none,  blithely  did  the 
chores  of  the  wigwam  and  the  cook- 
ing bower,  and  enjoyed  the  morning 
freshness,  which  so  soon  the  sun 
would  scorch  away.  They  were  en- 
camped by  the  Little  Bighorn,  a 
muddy  stream,  which  in  some  way 
managed  to  coax  a  few  trees  and 
bushes  along  its  banks.  It  seemed 
almost  attractive  by  contrast  with 
the  monotony  of  alkali  sun-baked 
land  that  spread  away  for  hopeless 
miles  and  miles,  and  comprised  the 
Eden  that  the  Government  has  re- 
served for  the  Absarokas,  or  Crows. 

When  Manita  had  harnessed  two 


shaggy  horses  to  the  fourth-hand 
Studebaker,  she  threw  some  sacks 
and  boxes  into  the  wagon  and  helped 
Wah-pu-ta  to  scramble  to  the  seat 
beside  her.  The  old  woman  tied 
a  red  and  green  handkerchief  around 
her  withered  face  and  opened  a 
huge  white  cotton  umbrella,  through 
which  the  sun  glared  with  tireless 
energy.  Manita  started  the  horses 
on  a  jog  trot,  guided  them  into  the 
road,  not  far  distant,  and  joined  the 
straggling  procession  of  similar  con- 
veyances, and  of  foot  travellers, 
who  all  were  bound  for  the  same 
place,  the  Clerk's  office. 

The  Government's  office  at  the 
Agency  on  beef-issue  days  was  a 
puzzle  of  Whitemen,  Indian  and 
food,  which  invariably  worked  out 
the  same  result  —  misunderstand- 
ings— in  spite  of  the  reasonings  to 
the  contrary  of  the  wise  men  at 
Washington.  The  record  of  each 
nominal  head  of  the  family  is  kept, 
and  a  certain  amount  of  coffee, 
flour,  bacon,  beans  and  the  like,  is 
doled  out  to  him  by  the  allwise 
Government,  which  sits  in  its  spa- 
cious well-managed  homes  in  the  Far 


East  and  regulates  these  things. 
The  beef  also  is  bought  by  the 
Government,  driven  alive  and 
killed  on  the  spot,  an  admirable 
plan,  if  contractors  were  always 
honest. 

Manita  had  followed  all  the  little 
excitements  of  the  day  with  keen 
interest,  it  being  her  first  beef  issue 
from  the  Indian  point  of  view.  As 
the  sun  was  getting  low,  she  was 
once  more  seated  in  the  wagon  with 
Whiteleg  beside  her  driving,  and 
Wah-pu-ta  packed  in  the  back  with 
bundles  and  boxes  of  provisions.  Man- 
ita had  clasped  in  her  hand  a  bundle 
containing  a  pair  of  moccasins  and 
a  belt  of  finest  buckskin,  beauti- 
fully beaded,  for  which  she  had 
exchanged  her  wedding  shoes. 

Nothing  was  said  as  they  jogged 
along.  The  twilight  came  quickly, 
the  crescent  moon  and  numberless 
stars  dappled  the  deep  blue  sky. 
A  gentle  evening  breeze  cooled  the 
earth,  but  it  failed  to  cool  the 
fevered  thoughts  of  It-tas-da-chirsch, 
in  whom  the  meditations  of  the 
morning  and  the  frequent  draughts 
of  firewater  in  the  afternoon  had 


combined  to  produce  a  state  of 
maddest  adoration  for  Manita. 

Emotions  such  as  these  do  not 
remain  long  concealed,  Wah-pu-ta 
was  asleep  in  the  wagon-box.  White- 
leg  put  his  arm  around  Manita 
and  kissed  her.  Then  the  horses 
requiring  attention  he  was  obliged 
to  release  her.  Manita  did  not  under- 
stand, but  she  entirely  disliked  the 
new  development.  Soon  White- 
leg  renewed  his  addresses,  which 
Manita  repulsed. 

"  It-tas-da-chirsch  has  been  tak- 
ing fire-water,"  she  said  in  Ab- 
saroka. 

"  It-tas-da-chirsch  loves  Manita, 
the  fawn-like.  She  is  good  cook  and 
strong.  She  make  good  squaw," 
thus  Whiteleg,  who  was  a  man  of 
few  words. 

''At  Dog  Dance  I  will  really 
marry  Manita."  He  again  at- 
tempted to  kiss  her. 

The  world  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  broken  in  two  and  left  Manita 
suspended  in  mid-air.  She  climbed 
over  the  seat  into  the  back  of  the 
wagon,  jostled  Wah-pu-ta  into  wake- 
fulness,  and  being  thus  protected, 


tried    to    calm    her    thoughts    and 
face   the   new   situation. 

She  had  no  intention  of  marrying 
Whiteleg,  but  she  had  no  alter- 
native if  he  wanted  to  marry  her, 
for  in  the  minds  of  every  one  but 
Wah-pu-ta,  Whiteleg  and  herself, 
she  was  already  his  wife. 

She  had  made  a  mistake  in  taking 
for  granted  that  Whiteleg  would 
feel  at  all  times  as  she  did.  She  had 
made  him  too  comfortable,  had  fitted 
in  too  easily.  In  her  gratitude  for 
what  he  had  done  and  was  to  do  for 
her,  she  had  tried  to  please  him,  and 
she  had  succeeded  too  well.  For- 
tunately she  still  had  three  days  before 
the  Dog  Dance  to  change  his  mind. 

Her  first  opportunity  soon  came. 
Whiteleg,  who  was  getting  very 
drowsy,  dropped  his  whip  in  the 
road.  Manita  refused  to  pick  it  up 
saying  she  was  too  tired,  but  agreed 
to  hold  the  reins  while  he  got  out. 
Grumblingly  he  did  so,  and  stumbled 
back  after  the  whip.  He  heard  the 
rumble  of  wheels  when  he  stooped 
to  grasp  it,  and  straightened  himself 
in  time  to  see  his  wagon  fading  out 
of  sight  down  the  road.  He  started 


254 


after  it,  but  if  there  is  one  form  of 
work  a  settlement  Indian  hates  more 
than  another,  it  is  walking;  besides 
he  was  uncommonly  drowsy.  So  he 
sat  down  on  the  bank  beside  the 
road  to  wait  for  Manita's  return,  and 
soon  toppled  over  into  an  uncom- 
fortable position  and  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke,  water  was  run- 
ning in  the  irrigation  ditch  beside 
him,  and  the  sun  was  unpleasantly 
hot.  He  was  within  sight  of  his  wig- 
wam that  had  seemed  so  far  the  night 
before,  and  he  was  in  no  amiable 
mood  as  he. shambled  to  the  cooking 
bower  and  sullenly  attempted  to 
eat  what  Manita  set  before  him. 
The  bacon  was  burned  to  a  crisp 
and  the  coffee  had  a  queer  taste, 
but  Whiteleg  said  nothing  as  he 
feared  the  fault  was  his  own  palate; 
the  Whitemen's  whiskey,  as  he  knew, 
was  not  a  good  morning  appetiser. 
Neither  did  he  question  Manita  con- 
cerning last  night's  disappearance. 
He  had  a  feeling  that  the  less  said 
about  last  night  the  better.  But 
Manita  was  ready  with  an  explana- 
tion; had,  in  fact,  sat  up  half  the 
night  awaiting  his  return. 


"Whiteleg,  the  horses  nearly  ran 
away  last  night.  You  know  I  am 
not  gifted  with  managing  horses.  I 
studied  figures  and  words  at  school 
instead  of  horses." 

Whiteleg  looked  up  in  surprise. 
He  had  particularly  noticed  the 
power  Manita  had  over  the  horses, 
which  is  one  of  the  prides  of  the 
Indian.  He  found  himself  under  the 
necessity  of  changing  his  original 
conclusion,  to  his  mind,  an  unpleas- 
ant thing  in  itself.  Then  he  noticed 
that  Manita  was  sitting  idly  on  a  box 
in  the  shade,  when  she  might  have 
been  unpacking  the  wagon,  and 
shortly  afterward  she  wandered  off 
down  the  river,  so  that  he  was  obliged 
to  help  Wah-pu-ta  with  the  heavier 
things,  which  were  too  much  for  her 
strength. 

Manita  came  back  in  time  to  cook 
the  evening  meal,  and  in  response 
to  Wah-pu-ta's  questions,  said  she 
had  gone  off  for  a  walk  feeling 
rather  lazy,  and  had  stopped  with 
Ba-kee-da  for  awhile,  and  that 
Ba-kee-da  had  taught  her  a  fas- 
cinating game  of  cards,  called  ca- 
sino. No,  she  was  not  hungry, 


Ba-kee-da     had 
meal    for    her. 

Whiteleg  grunted.  Wah-pu-ta  had 
a  good  deal  to  say  but  she  said  it 
mostly  to  herself  in  an  undertone. 
Manita  was  amiable  and  apparently 
unconscious  of  any  change  in  the 
home  atmosphere. 

The  dinner  was  a  failure.  Manita 
was  attended  by  bad  luck.  The  beans 
were  not  cooked  enough  and  she  had 
forgotten  to  season  them;  the  mo- 
lasses, which  was  to  redeem  them, 
had  been  allowed  to  stand  so  long 
exposed  that  it  had  become  the 
last  home  of  so  many  flies  and  bugs 
that  even  Whiteleg  passed  it  by. 
The  meat,  by  some  awkwardness 
Manita  upset  into  the  fire,  and  when 
it  was  rescued,  tasted  chiefly  of  ashes 
and  smoke.  Manita  obligingly  cooked 
another  piece  which,  she  being  in  a 
hurry,  was  not  even  warmed  through. 
The  bread  and  the  corn  were  burned, 
Manita's  attention  having  been  dis- 
tracted by  her  other  mishaps. 

The  next  morning  Manita  put  salt 
instead  of  sugar  in  the  coffee,  time- 
worn  but  effective  device,  and  did 
several  other  absent-minded  things 


which  at  last  brought  forth  an  ir- 
ritated rebuke  from  Whiteleg,  to 
which  she  replied  good  naturedly— 

"  I  am  sorry  I  am  not  a  good 
cook,  and  I  certainly  did  have  better 
luck  when  I  first  started,  but  what 
do  you  expect  from  a  girl  brought 
up  at  a  Government  school?  They 
don't  teach  them  to  be  good  squaws. 
They  teach  them  things  like  this," 
and  she  repeated  "  Curfew  Shall  Not 
Ring  To-night,"  which  Whiteleg  did 
not  understand,  and  which  bored  him 
exceedingly. 

After  that  Arabella  Horsetail  often 
recited  verses  she  had  learned  at 
school,  and  went  about  in  a  mooney 
sort  of  way,  failing  utterly  to  see  the 
many  little  things  she  might  have 
done  to  assist  the  wigwam  economies. 

By  Saturday  night  Wah-pu-ta  had 
naturally  slipped  into  her  old  position 
as  cook,  and  Whiteleg,  as  of  yore, 
had  to  fetch  and  carry,  for  Manita 
was  never  available  at  the  right 
time,  or  if  she  were  did  the  task  very 
badly;  not  from  ill-will,  she  always 
assented  cheerfully,  but  her  mind 
was  so  occupied  with  gazing  at 
the  stars,  reciting  verses,  and  book- 


learning  generally,  that  the  fatigue 
of  watching  her  bungling,  was  greater 
than  doing  the  thing  itself. 

I  had  been  a  witness  of  the  mock 
wedding  the  week  before,  and  now  on 
the  following  Sunday  at  the  Feast  of 
the  Dog  Dance,  I  was  to  see  the  second 
and  final  scene. 

I  remember  how  blazing  hot  it  was, 
and  how  dusty,  as  we  drove  in  a 
springless  lumber  wagon  three  miles 
out  from  the  Agency  where  the 
Indians  were  encamped.  Every 
stone,  every  leaf  was  shrouded  in  a 
thick  dust  garment — even  the  river 
bed  of  the  Little  Bighorn  had  shrunk 
to  a  mere  thread ;  the  heat  rose  from 
the  alkali  dust  in  shimmering  waves 
fairly  cooking  us  brown,  as  in  an 
oven.  Drawing  near  the  gala  ground 
we  saw  many  teepees  dotted  along 
the  banks  with  only  a  few  clumps 
of  willows  and  one  or  two  scraggly 
cottonwoods  to  break  the  awful 
glare.  Many  of  the  teepees  were 
painted,  which  made  them  most 
picturesque.  A  large  one  coloured 
dull  red,  stood  out  for  miles.  It  was 
further  decorated  with  a  band  of 


259 


animals  in  various  colours,  blue, 
green,  white,  black,  and  the  door 
was  closed  with  a  beautiful  grizzly 
bear  skin  of  which  Nimrod  secured 
a  photograph  together  with  a  copper- 
coloured  baby  standing  in  front. 
The  little  fellow  could  not  have  been 
more  than  four  years  old;  he  wore 
nothing  but  a  little  breech-cloth,  a 
pair  of  moccasins,  a  necklace  of  elk's 
teeth  and  a  feather  in  his  hair,  ar- 
rayed for  the  dance.  When  he  saw 
that  Nimrod  was  going  to  photo- 
graph him,  he  ran  to  fetch  a  big 
stick,  slipped  a  rag  of  a  garment  over 
his  head  and  placed  himself  in  front 
of  the  teepee,  the  big  bear  skin  hang- 
ing behind  him,  his  right  hand  grasp- 
ing the  stick,  up  high — little  body  as 
straight  as  an  arrow,  deliberately 
posing — most  unusual,  as  the  belief 
is  current  among  Indians  that  some 
virtue  goes  out  of  them  into  the 
pictured  resemblance. 

When  released  he  scrambled  on  to 
a  pony  and  joined  a  dozen  or  more 
Indian  children  who  were  dashing 
around  on  ponies  trying  to  lasso 
each  other.  Many  of  the  ponies  car- 
ried double,  one  'buckskin'  had 


26o 


three  little  girls  all  riding  bare-back, 
not  a  scrap  of  harness  on  him  but  a 
string  bridle ;  they  stuck  like  burrs— 
without  sign  of  fear — and  made  the 
horse  gallop  and  turn  and  twist  in 
their  play.  They  wore  cheap  calico 
dresses  with  coloured  rags  braided  in 
their  hair,  but  were  dressed  for  the 
occasion  in  moccasins  and  leggings 
beautifully  beaded,  and  some  wore 
strings  of  beads  and  wampum.  A 
band  of  young  braves  in  white  man's 
garb  mounted  on  cow-ponies  were 
having  a  race,  and  rope-throwing  con- 
test on  the  prairie.  We  had  seen  that 
sort  of  thing  before,  so  we  left  our 
horses  tied  to  the  wagon  in  a  group 
with  a  dozen  others  that  had  come 
from  long  distances  to  witness  the 
Feast. 

The  Indians  had  gathered  from  all 
over  the  Reservation,  these  feasts  serv- 
ing as  a  kind  of  convention  at  which  to 
transact  the  business  of  the  nation; 
disputes  are  settled, business  ad  justed, 
marriages  solemnised ,  treat  ies  enacted. 

A  circle  perhaps  a  hundred  feet 
across  had  been  formed  by  teepees 
and  rough  shelter  tents  and  in  the 
centre  of  this  was  a  tall  pole  with 


26i 


the  American  flag  at  the  top  and 
some  feathers  tied  below  it.  Around 
and  around  the  pole  danced  the 
warriors  in  full  war  paint.  Some 
of  them  were  of  splendid  physique 
and  their  costume  was  not  designed 
to  conceal  their  anatomy.  It  was  prin- 
cipally necklaces,  armlets,  anklets, 
beads  and  feathers.  A  breech-cloth 
was  the  only  thing  worthy  to  be  called 
a  garment,  although  some  wore  a 
beaded  flannel  jacket,  red  or  blue, 
and  sleeveless.  The  head-dress  re- 
ceived chief  consideration — beads, bits 
of  fur,  ribbon  and  eagle  feathers,  in  a 
band  going  around  the  head  and  along 
a  tail  hanging  to  the  ground.  There 
must  have  been  two  hundred  Indians 
standing  and  sitting  around  the 
dance  circle.  At  the  south  end  was 
the  teepee  of  the  Master  of  Cere- 
monies. He  came  out  every  now  and 
then  and  announced  in  a  high  sing- 
song voice  what  was  going  to  happen, 
in  Crow,  of  course.  Next  to  his  teepee 
were  the  musicians.  A  strip  of 
canvas  had  been  stretched  above 
them,  and  they  needed  it.  Two  or 
three  men  beat  tom-toms,  while  a 
half  a  dozen  women  relieved  each 


other  in  chanting  a  weird,  high  wail, 
in  which  one  could  distinguish  a 
certain  rhythm. 

Nimrod  was  concerned  for  fear 
I  would  have  a  sun-stroke,  my  face 
was  like  raw  beef,  but  the  squaws 
made  room  for  us  under  one  of  their 
sheltering  canvases,  and  we  sat  there 
for  two  hours  watching  the  per- 
formance. The  concomitants  were 
indescribable — the  heat,  the  glare, 
the  sweaty  Indians,  the  crying 
babies,  the  flies,  attracted  by  bits 
of  food  thrown  about. 

I  had  been  watching  for  a  long 
time  a  charming  Indian  girl  arrayed 
in  all  the  glory  of  an  elk- tooth  jacket, 
wampum  necklaces  and  beaded  leg- 
gings, her  thick  black  plaits  of  hair 
woven  with  bright  ribbons.  As  she 
was  evidently  nervous,  and  a  visibly 
nervous  Indian  is  a  rarity,  I  asked 
the  interpreter  about  her.  He  looked 
at  me  in  surprise  and  said,  "That  is 
Manita — and  that's  It-tas-da-chirsch, ' ' 
indicating  a  sullen  looking,  burly  fel- 
low who  was  watching  Manita  nar- 
rowly. 

In  their  Indian  finery  I  had  recog- 
nised neither  as  the  bogus  white 


folk  who  had  stood  at  the  altar  the 
week  before. 

With  the  assistance  of  Tom,  a 
very  good  fellow,  we  followed  the 
course  of  the  ceremony.  The  music 
was  never  allowed  to  stop  and  the 
braves — I  forgot  to  say  that  they 
were  gaily  painted  with  stripes  and 
spots  of  yellow,  red,  black  and  white 
principally,  over  the  face  and  body 
— would  dance  when  the  spirit  moved 
them  and  until  they  were  tired. 
There  were  always  some  of  them 
dancing  in  a  kind  of  continuous 
performance.  One  time  Mak-ke-nah, 
the  Master  of  Ceremonies,  came  out 
and  made  a  long  speech.  He  was 
a  scraggly  looking  old  man,  and  he 
became  much  excited,  waved  his 
arms  about  wildly,  stamped  up  and 
down,  fairly  howled  sometimes — 
looked  as  though  he  was  making  a 
stump  speech,  and  so  he  was.  Tom 
gave  us  a  gist  of  it.  He  began: 

"  Hear,  hear — listen  to  Mak-ke-nah 
the  Silver-tongued!  All  ye  of  the 
mighty  Nation  of  Absaroka,  Greet- 
ing." Then  he  went  on  to  say  that  his 
people  had  been  great  but  were  now 
under  the  heel  of  the  Whiteman. 


He  painted  their  past  glory  with  lav- 
ish brush,  indulging  in  much  wordy 
fireworks,  and  then  he  blackened 
their  faces  and  called  them  miser- 
ables  in  a  dozen  ways  and  told 
them  that  they  would  be  less  than 
nothing  if  they  did  not  rise  up  and 
smite  the  Paleface — Nimrod  called 
him  "a  regular  old  fire-eater."  I 
could  see  the  black  eyes  of  the  In- 
dians begin  to  snap.  Every  now 
and  then  there  would  be  cries  of 
"How  how!"  Then  when  he 
stopped,  exhausted,  a  fine  old  man 
with  much  dignity  came  out — and 
we  recognised  Plenty  Coups,  one  of 
their  most  honoured  chiefs.  He  said 
he  sympathised  heartily  with  every- 
thing that  their  eloquent  brother 
had  said,  but  that  he  was  foolish 
in  a  variety  of  ways  for  stirring  up 
the  people,  as  it  was  hopeless  to 
fight  the  Whiteman;  that  the  world 
had  swept  beyond  the  Indian,  it  must 
be  the  will  of  the  Great  Spirit  that 
they  should  no  longer  conquer, 
and  they  must  be  patient  while  the 
cloud  was  upon  them. 

Then  the  Silver-tongued  came  out 
again  and  said  with  many  flourishes 


that  he  supposed  the  Chief  was 
right,  and  that  now  they  would 
have  a  good  time  feasting.  He 
called  down  the  Spirit  of  the  Dog 
upon  them.  A  large  iron  pot  was 
brought  into  the  centre  of  the  ring. 
With  upraised  arms  he  gave  a  kind 
of  incantation  over  it.  Then  the 
cover  was  lifted  off,  and  I  saw 
it  in  the  pot!  Boiled  Dog!  Some 
of  the  hair  was  still  sticking  to  the 
skin.  Every  man,  woman  and  child 
had  a  piece,  eked  out  with  soda 
crackers  and  dry  bread.  Then  all 
the  braves  joined  in  the  great  dance. 
They  ki-yi-ed  and  they  hoop-la-ed 
and  perhaps  after  that  dog  business 
I  would  have  been  ready  to  go,  but 
for  that  beautiful,  nervous  Indian 
girl  and  her  sullen  companion. 

During  the  Feast  of  the  Dog  and 
subsequent  dance,  Manita  had  been 
earnestly  talking  to  It-tas-da-chirsch. 
She  seemed  to  be  arguing  with  him. 
He  appeared  obdurate.  At  last,  with 
a  gesture  of  despair,  she  stopped. 
Her  arms  hung  dejectedly  by  her 
sides.  Suddenly  her  face  brightened. 
Quickly  she  went  to  the  Chief 
Plenty  Coups's  teepee  and  disap- 


266 


peared.  Whiteleg  looked  after  her 
in  perplexity.  Faster  went  the 
dancers,  louder  and  louder  grew 
their  cries,  and  minute  after  minute 
sped  by.  Then  down  from  the  tent 
came  Mak-ke-nah,  leading  by  the 
hand  the  wild- eyed  girl. 

Raising  his  arm  in  a  commanding 
gesture  a  sudden  silence  fell  upon 
the  throng. 

In  a  low  voice  at  first,  and 
gradually  gaining  crescendo,  he 
told  Manita's  story,  as  she  had 
poured  it  out  to  the  listening 
Chiefs,  of  her  unhappy  childhood, 
of  the  mission  school,  of  her  moth- 
er's death,  broken-hearted  for  her 
five  year  old  baby  torn  from 
her,  of  the  vandalism  at  the  dead 
trees,  of  It-tas-da-chirsch's  bargain, 
of  her  payments  to  him  of  the 
ponies  and  buffalo  robe  and  now  of 
his  refusal  to  divorce  her.  With 
graphic  words  he  laid  the  story 
before  them  and  finished: 

"And  now  wise  people  of  the 
great  nation  of  the  Absaroka,  what 
shall  be  done  to  this  maiden?  Shall 
ye  make  her  squaw  to  It-tas-da- 
chirsch,  who  already  has  her  ponies, 


or  shall  ye  grant  the  freedom  for 
which  she  beseeches  ye?" 

He  stopped;  a  murmur  arose. 
Then  stood  up  an  old  man,  Bear 
Claws,  the  father  of  Pine  Leaf,  the 
one  who  had  killed  herself  because 
she  had  been  educated  away  from 
her  people. 

"Let  her  go  free,"  he  said  briefly. 

A  young  buck  on  horseback  in  the 
outer  edge  of  the  ring  echoed  the 
phrase.  Many  voices  took  up  the 
cry.  Whiteleg  was  urged  to  the 
front,  but  the  affair  had  gotten 
beyond  him.  He  made  no  resist- 
ance. A  chorus  of  "How — hows," 
and  the  thing  was  done.  Manita, 
with  eyes  shining,  with  the  painted 
symbol  of  virginity  still  on  each 
cheek,  bowed  to  the  four  winds  and 
sped  away  to  be  once  more  a  member 
of  Seatiss's  teepee  circle — sped  free  as 
a  bird  toward  the  distant  hills  and 
the  sunset. 

With  her  went  the  charm  of  this 
primitive  scene,  and  we  too  turned 
our  faces  toward  our  birthright — 
the  rising  sun,  and  civilisation. 


PART  III. 


ON  THE  OTTAWA 


XIII. 


TE-VIS-CA-BING 


HE  Ottawa  region  was 
the  very  own  stamping 
ground  of  the  Tevi. 
Bobbie  Tevis  had 
created  a  hunting  box 
in  the  wilds  on  one  of 
the  innumerable  lakes  that  puncture 
that  country  like  a  sieve.  Te-vis-ca- 
bing  he  called  the  roomy  log  camp, 
which  appellation  when  strongly  ac- 
cented on  the  second  syllable,  sug- 
gested appropriate  Indian.  If  he 
had  perpetrated  "  I  die  wild  "  or  some- 
thing or  other  " villa"  -but  of 
course,  Bobbie  would  not. 


272 


The  Tevi,  Nimrod  and  I  tumbled 
off  the  train  late  at  night  much 
excited — after  two  years  to  be  again 
in  the  woods.  Much  violent  up- 
rooting from  home  duties  had  been 
required  to  accomplish  it,  but 
the  precious  freedom  was  ours,  and 
heaven  (a  place  where  one  does  what 
pleases  one  best)  became  available 
on  the  twentieth  of  September. 

The  little  town  of  Trois  Lacs 
(butchered  into  "Trollak"  even  by 
the  Canuck  natives)  was  already  dark 
save  for  the  saloon,  and  we  gladly 
burned  the  midnight  candle  while 
exchanging  fripperies  for  frugalities 
of  costume  and  luggage  in  prepara- 
tion for  the  early  morning  start. 

Once  while  following  the  econ- 
omical and  primitive  method  in  vogue 
at  this  "hotel" — guiltless  of  plumb- 
ing— I  went  to  the  window  to  throw 
out  some  water,  when  my  hand  was 
stayed,  barely  in  time,  by  a  mascu- 
line voice  pouring  out  a  torrent  of 
bad  French,  or  rather  a  patois.  Two 
figures  were  standing  directly  below 
in  shadow: 

"  You  will  not  come.  I  shall  dance 
with  Francois — " 


A  mocking  feminine  voice  floated 
up  to  me,  and,  as  I  discreetly  lowered 
the  sash,  the  man  was  vowing  by 
all  the  saints  in  the  calendar  that 
he  would  be  at  the  dance,  that  he 
knew  a  way,  trust  him,  and  that 
the  plus  belle  flower  in  Trois  Lacs 
should  dance  with  no  one  but  him- 
self, or  his  hunting  knife  would  kiss 
the  flesh  of  Francois. 

I  only  understood  a  word  here  and 
there  but  enough  to  occasion  a 
remark  to  Nimrod  concerning  the 
picturesqueness  of  the  Latin  love- 
making.  The  Saxon  type  of  man 
who  earns  his  living  out-of-doors, 
would  probably  have  said  simply, 

"  I  am  coming — and  I  mean  bus- 
iness," but  the  results  would  have 
been  the  same,  or  even  more  '  un- 
healthy' for  Francois. 

There  was  no  delay  in  the  start. 
By  six  o'clock  our  guides  were  wait- 
ing and  in  another  hour  we  and  our 
belongings  had  been  ferried  over  the 
Ottawa  in  a  huge  batteau  that  looked 
none  too  strong  to  navigate  the 
rapids  and  the  log- choked  surface  of 
this  mighty  river. 

While    the   wagons  that  were  to 


take  us  the  forest  part  of  the  journey 
were  being  packed,  Sally  and  I  stood 
on  the  shore  and  looking  across  the 
turbulent  water-way  to  some  lumber- 
men's shanties,  bade  farewell  to  the 
Ottawa,  and  to  cut-glass,  damask 
and  long  skirts.  Then  we  inspected 
the  men  upon  whom  so  much  depend- 
ed for  comfort  or  misery  during  the 
next  month.  The  Tevi's  two  guides, 
George  and  Arthur,  were  Ottawa 
river-men  and  experienced  in  the 
country.  Bert,  our  special  guide,  as 
well  as  the  all- import  ant  cook,  had 
been  imported  from  the  Adirondacks. 
The  Cook  was  a  Civil  War  veteran 
burdened,  as  we  soon  learned,  with 
disabilities  and  wonderful  stories. 
Nate  Creche,  as  "camp  boy,"  com- 
pleted the  party.  Nate  was  essen- 
tially a  "Trollak"  product.  It  was 
his  birthplace,  thirty  years  ago,  and 
represented  to  him  the  big  world,  to 
which  he  came  occasionally  when  he 
had  accumulated  enough  to  have  a 
"good  time."  Reared  in  lumber 
camps,  with  limited  intelligence  and 
no  education,  but  much  native  cun- 
ning, he  spoke  three  languages  abom- 
inably, English,  French  and  Indian. 


Nate  once  described  himself  as  a 
"  pot-pourri  of  French,  Indian,  Nigger 
and  Irish."  He  knew  how  to  do  a 
great  many  things  badly,  but  he  had 
one  ability  which,  by  dint  of  much 
practice,  he  had  developed  into  an 
art — he  could  tell  a  lie,  or  a  chain  of 
lies,  and  make  it  a  well-nigh  perfect 
piece  of  work. 

He  never  employed  the  truth  if  he 
could  arrange  to  do  without  it,  and  it 
was  this  consistency  that  made  him 
possible  to  get  on  with,  as  the  mis- 
chief of  a  lie  comes  when  it  is 
believed. 

Physically  he  was  as  tough  and 
stunted  as  a  scrub  oak,  swarthy  as 
an  Indian;  his  head,  surmounted  by 
a  great  mop  of  coarse  black  hair, 
was  small  and  set  on  a  massive 
muscular  throat  column,  such  as  the 
Stone  Age  man  must  have  had,  and 
which  was  further  developed  by 
long  use  of  the  tump  line.  He 
was  a  creature  who  seemed  to  have 
inherited  many  of  the  vicious  strains 
of  his  various  forebears  without  their 
off-setting  good  qualities,  save  a  cer- 
tain Irish  good  nature. 

But   I   digress  and  am  doubtless 


276 


too  severe,  influenced  by  the  recol- 
lection of  certain  occasions,  two  in 
particular,  when  we  were  victims 
of  this  irresponsible  creature — really 
no  more  to  be  blamed  than  a  lumber- 
ing  mastiff  puppy  who  knocks  over 
one's  pet  Sevres  vase  by  a  wag  of 
his  tail. 

The  supply  wagon  had  been 
packed  and  our  host  wanted  Nate 
to  start  ahead  with  it.  Nate  was  not 
to  be  found  until  a  loud  halloo 
brought  him  up  the  bank  from  the 
river  with  a  remark  about  "  getting 
a  drink  of  water." 

George  favoured  Arthur  with  a 
wink.  "Nate's  been  sayin'  good-bye 
to  his  girl.  She's  a  good  'un.  He 
is  afraid  he  will  lose  her." 

Far  across  the  water  at  Trois  Lacs, 
I  saw  a  tiny  figure  in  white  standing 
on  the  shore,  and  was  reminded  of 
the  other  two  lovers  the  night  before. 
Truly  Cupid  seemed  busy  here. 

Such  a  road  we  now  had  to  travel! 
We  could  not  claim  to  be  unacquain- 
ted with  such,  as  this  was  not  our 
first  trip  into  the  wilds,  but  there 
is  something  so  aggressively  uncom- 
fortable in  a  rocky,  boggy,  hilly, 


277 


rutty  corduroy  road,  that  one  can 
never  form  the  habit.  Like  Cod 
Liver  Oil,  each  acquaintance  with 
it  means  a  fresh  victory. 

Fifteen  miles  in  five  hours  would 
hardly  win  the  Vanderbilt  Cup,  but 
when  Crosby's  Lake,  our  lunching 
place,  shimmered  through  the  trees 
we  were  as  thankful  as  though  its 
silver  were  the  hard  earned  bauble 
itself,  and  we  the  owners. 

At  luncheon  Bobbie,  perched  pre- 
cariously on  a  boulder,  held  forth  on 
the  merits  of  canoes  over  horses  as 
a  means  of  locomotion.  It  sounded 
attractive — and  proved  to  be  all 
quite  true — long  hours  of  gently 
gliding  through  placid  waters,  fish 
darting  beneath,  ready  to  furnish  hy- 
gienic meals,  beautiful  arboreal  shores 
in  view,  now  far,  now  near,  flower- 
strewn  portage  trails,  with  an  occa- 
sional game  animal  staring  at  us 
through  the  trees.  Likewise  the 
greater  carrying  power  of  a  canoe 
over  a  horse  and  consequent  addi- 
tional comforts — about  which  there 
is  more  to  be  said  later. 

But  Bobbie  gave  only  one  side  of 
the  picture.  He  neglected  to  state 


that  sometimes  the  fish  refuse  to  be 
caught  and  that  it  rains,  yes,  and 
rains  and  rains  again,  and  the  winds 
lash  angry  waves,  upon  which, there 
is  no  peaceful  gliding  but  much  need 
of  strenuous  endeavour  and  a  knowl- 
edge of  swimming.  He  failed  to 
note  the  necessity  of  staying  in  a 
cramped  position  until  one  has  sam- 
pled a  large  collection  of  aches  and, 
lastly,  that  the  flower-strewn  portage 
is  more  often  the  trail  of  fatigue  on 
which  burdened  humans,  doing  the 
work  of  pack-horses,  sweat  and  strain. 
No,  my  preference  is  still  for  the  four- 
footed  friend  who  does  most  of  the 
work,  neither  automobiles,  airships, 
nor  canoes  can  win  away  my 
allegiance. 

Still  I  acknowledge  the  wonderful 
charm  of  the  water  country  and  the 
almost  human  companionship  of  the 
canoe.  And  the  soft  ease  of  smoothly 
gliding  on  a  placid  lake  was  borne  in 
upon  my  soul  the  following  morning 
when  we  were  astir  before  the  sun 
had  cleared  away  the  water  veil  that 
had  draped  the  landscape  in  silvery 
softness.  We  had  spent  the  night 
at  a  deserted  lumber  camp,  now  in 


\ 


'EACH  IN  A  CANOE  WITH  A  GUIDE  TO  PADDLE 


charge  of  a  man  and  a  cow,  and  used 
as  a  half-way  house  by  the  few 
travellers  who  go  into  those  wilds. 
Creche  and  the  Cook  had  already 
started  with  the  loaded  wagon  over 
a  well-nigh  impassable  wood  road. 
We  were  to  take  the  water  route 
and  all  expected  to  reach  Te-vis- 
ca-bing  that  night. 

Each  in  a  canoe  with  a  guide  to 
paddle  it,  we  slipped  through  water 
so  calm  that  later  when  the  inevi- 
table photograph  was  developed,  so 
sharp  was  the  reflection  that  one  had 
to  examine  closely  to  know  real  from 
shadow.  This  was  indeed  all  that 
our  host  had  pictured.  The  wooded 
shores  brilliant  from  the  first  frosts 
rose  like  the  rim  of  a  huge  cup  waiting 
for  Manabozou  to  quaff  an  autumn 
vintage.  Three  miles  of  easeful  silent 
motion  and  we  landed  at  the  first  por- 
tage. Each  guide  without  waste  of 
time  or  speech  swung  his  canoe  over 
his  head  and  started  on  the  trail,  in 
this  case  a  mile  up  a  hill  and  down 
again  to  the  next  lake. 

We  started  more  leisurely  as  the 
guides  were  to  make  two  trips  to 
our  one,  we  having  brought  some 


282 


"duffel "that  Bobbie  had  deemed  not 
wise  to  leave  on  the  bumping,  jolting 
wagon — eggs  for  instance,  and  other 
breakables.  Nimrod  weighed  his 
pack,  twenty-three  pounds,  and 
laughed  it  to  scorn,  but  I  noticed  he 
was  willing  to  rest  when  Sally  and  I, 
out  of  breath,  dropped  on  a  moss- 
covered  bank  at  the  top  of  the  hill, 
Bobbie  carried  his  guns  and  seemed 
to  find  them  sufficient.  I  had  started 
with  a  gun,  seven  pounds;  a  camera, 
three  pounds ;  a  little  bag,  two  pounds ; 
and  a  fishing  rod,  half-a-pound. 
One  by  one  these  articles  were  trans- 
ferred to  Nimrod,  but  I  wish  to 
relate  that  I  came  triumphantly 
through  with  the  fishing-rod. 

Once  more  in  the  canoe  on  the 
Second  Lake,  in  answer  to  my  obvious 
remark  that  every  pound  seemed  to 
double  its  weight  every  five  minutes, 
Bert,  my  paddler,  said: 

"Yes'm.  Some  greenhorns  tries 
to  work  us  like  pack-horses.  But 
let  'em  try  a  'carry'  themselves.  I've 
seen  'em.  They  begin  by  throwin' 
away  and  throwin'  away  until  they 
get  down  to  a  pocket  handkerchief. 
Then  they  tear  that  in  two — and 


keep  the  half  with  the  hole  in  it — 
sssh!" 

He  had  spoken  in  a  low  tone  for  we 
might  see  game  at  any  time,  and 
his  abnipt  ending  warned  me  that 
something  interesting  was  about  to 
happen.  Nimrod  in  the  bow  of  his 
canoe  nearby  was  already  craning 
his  neck  at  some  object  across  the 
lake,  perhaps  half  a  mile. 

Bobbie  was  calling  in  an  excited 
whisper  to  Sally  to  look  at  the  moose, 
and  then  I  saw  the  creature,  a  spike- 
horn  bull,  wading  in  the  shallow 
water  eating  lily  buds.  Quite  at 
home  he  pursued  his  breakfast  undis- 
turbed by  us  (we  were  silent  and  not 
near)  as  though  he  knew  the  law 
protected  him  until  the  first  of  Octo- 
ber. Of  course,  he  had  nothing  to 
fear  from  us  at  any  time,  we  were 
not  hunting  spike-horns,  but  health 
and  happiness. 

For  several  minutes  the  canoes 
stole  toward  him,  as  he  was  on  the 
very  spot  where  we  were  to  land. 
Then,  realising  the  continued  ap- 
proach of  the  strangers,  he  bestirred 
himself  a  bit,  turned  out  of  the 
water,  shook  the  moisture  from  his 


284 


glistening  coat  and  trotted  along 
the  portage  trail  till  out  of  sight; 
then,  as  Nimrod  announced  later, 
when  studying  the  tracks,  he  swung 
off  into  a  thicket. 

Third  Lake  proved  uneventful; 
then  a  two-mile  carry.  Fourth  Lake 
was  punctuated  by  a  bivouac  lunch 
at  the  beginning  of  the  next  carry. 
The  sun  was  hot  now  and  had  roused 
to  a  busy  hum  all  the  tiny  voices  of 
the  forest,  but  although  we  knew 
animals  big  and  little  were  in  the 
neighbourhood,  probably  observing 
us  at  the  moment,  we  saw  nothing 
but  tracks. 

Fifth  Lake  took  most  of  the  after- 
noon, a  monotonous  dipping  of  pad- 
dles. The  last  carry  was  through  a 
treacherous  bog  and  then  into  the 
Home  Lake  and  Te-vis-ca-bing  two 
miles  away.  The  evening  shadows 
were  gathering,  nature  had  thrown 
a  bewitching  peace  on  the  stretches 
of  water,  woods  and  sky,  an  occa- 
sional jumping  fish  caused  a  sweet 
glad  note  as  it  plashed  back  to  its 
home,  and  then  rang  out  the  weird 
call  of  the  loon.  LLLLLa-lllllloooo, 
LLLLLLLa-lllllloo,  lilla-loo,  loo — 


the  echoes  took  it  up  and  sent  it 
back  as  a  welcome  to  us  from 
their  world,  the  world  we  all  loved. 
Thus  we  came  to  Te-vis-ca-bing, 
offering  shelter  and  camp-fire  hos- 
pitality, its  outlines  showing  in  the 
half-light  of  a  rising  moon.  Even 
as  we  looked,  two  red  eyes  shot 
forth — a  light  had  been  made  from 
within. 

Good — we  thought,  Creche  and 
the  Cook  have  arrived,  and  all  goes 
well  for  a  start  on  the  trail 
to-morrow.  We  were  all  keenly  impa- 
tient of  any  roof  but  a  canvas  one, 
and  in  the  woods  where  one  takes 
only  necessities,  to  be  separated  from 
the  supplies  is  like  a  caravan  in  the 
desert  without  water,  a  steamer  in 
mid-ocean  without  coal. 

Our  satisfaction,  alas,  was  short 
lived.  We  soon  found  that  Clifford, 
an  Indian  game  warden,  whom  our 
thoughtful  host  had  informed  of  our 
coming,  had  started  the  glowing  wel- 
come of  the  hearth,  and  Creche  with 
our  precious  supplies  was  still  an 
unknown  quantity.  So  was  the 
Cook,  but  a  cook  without  cookables 
does  not  count. 


CANUCK  S    TRICK 

>OD  was  the  important 
question. 

The  cabin  was  well- 
furnished,  but  being 
new,  it  held  no  hope  of 
left-overs  from  the  year 
before.  Clifford  produced  a  little 
coffee  from  his  pack,  all  he  had,  and 
we  hesitated  to  deplete  the  scanty 
store  of  beans  and  bacon  in  his  camp 
on  the  next  lake.  So  we  waited 
"  with  both  ears  hung  out  of  the  win- 
dow" as  Sally  expressed  it,  and 
pretended  we  were  not  hungry. 
It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock.  "  What 


can  have  become  of  the-boys  ? "  had 
comprised  our  host's  remarks  at 
quarter  hour  intervals  ever  since 
dark,  and  he  was  considering  a  search 
party  when  Nimrod  suggested  the 
old  device  of  firing  three  shots  in  case 
they  might  have  missed  the  road. 
Soon  a  feeble  halloo  called  us  all  to 
the  door,  and  behold — the  Cook,  a 
very  lame  and  tired  old  man  hob- 
bling toward  us,  alone,  with  not  so 
much  as  a  Uneeda  biscuit  in  his 
hand. 

To  our  questions,  tumbled  one 
after  another,  "Where  is  Creche? 
Where  is  the  wagon?  What  did  you 
do  with  the  horses?  Is  there  any- 
thing wrong  ? "  The  Cook  sat  heavily 
on  a  chair,  took  the  proffered  coffee 

and  remarked  that  he'd  "be if" 

he  knew  or  cared  where  Creche  was, 
that  the  horses  were  safe  till  morning, 
picketed  in  a  little  clearing,  he  did 
not  rightly  know  how  far  as  not 
knowing  the  road  he  had  "travelled 
a  bit,"  which  being  interpreted  means 
he  was  lost.  His  story,  sifted, 
smoothed  out,  and  pieced  together, 
was  this: 

About  three  o'clock,  Creche  while 


tightening  some  ropes  on  the  load 
discovered  that  a  big  brown  canvas 
roll  was  missing.  He  told  the  Cook 
to  drive  on,  that  the  road  was  plain 
and  not  more  than  three  miles  far- 
ther, while  he  would  run  the  back 
trail.  He  said  he  thought  the 
bundle  must  have  worked  loose 
while  crossing  that  stretch  of 
corduroy  in  the  swamp.  "It's 
a  wonder  a  feller  kept  teeth  in 
his  head,  let  alone  bundles  on 
a  wagon,"  and  with  that  he  had 
departed. 

The  Cook,  on  a  strange  rough  road 
with  strange  horses  (canoemen  sel- 
dom know  much  about  horses),  soon 
decided  he  had  had  enough,  and 
taking  advantage  of  a  little  meadow 
he  had  picketed  the  tired  beasts  and 
left  them  to  feed  as  best  they  could, 
while  he  set  out  for  the  cabin.  Dark- 
ness soon  obliterated  the  occasional 
blazing  on  a  tree  that  marked  the 
road,  and  he  had  the  prospect  of 
wandering  about  all  night,  within 
half  a  mile  of  us,  when  the  gunshots 
enabled  him  to  get  his  bearings. 

At  daybreak  George  and  Arthur 
went  for  the  wagon  and  returned 


with  it  in  time  for  us  to  have 
a  substantial  breakfast.  Thus 
cheered,  we  counted  off  the  boxes 
and  bundles  hoping  that  Creche 
might  have  been  "mistaken,"  as  we 
politely  put  it.  Alas,  this  time  he 
had  spoken  the  truth.  There  was  a 
big  brown  canvas  roll  missing,  and 
it  was — mine. 

In  an  excess  of  thriftiness,  I  had 
put  into  it  all  things  necessary  for 
my  use  in  the  tent — bedding,  cloth- 
ing, toilet  articles,  everything  that 
represented  my  personal  comfort  and 
independence.  No  one  had  a  surplus 
from  which  to  supply  me.  There 
was  no  question.  The  bundle  must 
be  found. 

I  knew  it  had  crossed  the  Ottawa 
for  I  had  seen  it.  "  Poor  Creche,  he 
may  have  to  travel  the  whole  of  the 
forty-five  miles  to  the  River.  That 
bundle  must  weigh  nearly  a  hundred 
pounds.  He  never  could  carry  it  all 
the  way  back  in  one  day,"  I  said, 
adding  "  How  would  you  like  to  do 
it,  George?"  For  that  person's  face 
wore  a  quizzical  look  I  could  not 
understand.  He  was  packing  am- 
munition in  a  bag  for  Bobbie 


and  waited  until  the  top  was  se- 
cured before  answering. 

George  always  was  deliberate  and 
spoke  in  low  tones,  wasting  no  words 
— as  though  game  was  near. 

"  No  need  to  worry  about  Nate. 
He  won't  hurt  himself.  Likely  won't 
see  that  bundle  afore  he  gets  to  the 
River." 

A  snake-like  suspicion  darted 
through  my  sympathy  for  the  absent 
Creche — the  River,  a  girl  in  white 
waving  farewell,  a  torrent  of  bad 
French  under  a  window. 

"  Was  there  a  dance  at  Trois  Lacs 
last  night,  George? " 

"Not  as  I  knows  of." 

"To-night,  perhaps?" 

George's  eyes  betrayed  slow  sur- 
prise, then  twinkled. 

"  No  'm.  To-morrow  night  the 
Frenchies  have  a  blow  out." 

To-morrow  night!  Keep  us  wait- 
ing for  three  days.  He  would  never 
dare.  I  dismissed  the  idea  as  pre- 
posterous. Surely  he  was  liable  to 
appear  at  any  moment. 

We  spent  the  day  watching,  wait- 
ing, fuming.  My  thoughts  alter- 
nated between  sympathy  for  poor 


bundle-burdened  Creche,  walking 
ninety  miles,  more  or  less,  and  indig- 
nation at  his  possible  perfidy.  Being 
a  guest,  I  said  nothing.  Our  host 
openly  berated  him  as  stupid,  care- 
less, lazy,  but  had  no  inkling  of 
ulterior  causes  that  might  have  ex- 
plained his  continued  absence. 

That  night  we  determined  not  to 
lose  another  day  while  waiting  for 
Creche. 

"  He  is  as  watched  for,  as  a  truant 
lover,"  said  Sally  almost  jerking  down 
the  shade  that  had  been  left  up  so 
that  the  lamp-light  might  shine  out 
as  a  beacon. 

Bobbie  decided  to  move  all  the 
paraphernalia  possible  to  our  first 
camp  on  White  Lake,  known  for  its 
big  fish,  and  get  it  ready,  and  with 
the  guides  he  spent  the  day  doing 
this.  There  is  much  to  be  done  to 
prepare  a  "permanent"  camp,  which 
is  to  be  lived  in  for  several  days.  A 
temporary  camp  is  a  one-night  stand. 
Trees  must  be  chopped,  tents  put 
up,  a  fire-place  made  for  cooking, 
very  elaborate,  after  the  Adirondack 
manner,  with  stones  and  live  logs; 
and,  not  to  be  forgotten,  a  landing 


place  for  the  canoes.  The  more 
experienced  a  canoeman  is  the  better 
care  he  takes  of  his  fragile  craft.  The 
originator  of  that  old  adage,  "an 
ounce  of  prevention"  etc.,  must  have 
been  a  canoeist. 

Nimrod  and  I  arranged  with  Clif- 
ford and  another  Indian  who  was 
quartered  at  his  camp,  to  make  an 
early  start  for  Loon  Lake  to  visit 
an  echo  cave  of  repute  among  the 
Mangasippi  Indians.  To  my  ques- 
tion, "How  far?"  I  got  answer: 

"Three  lakes — two  little  portages 
— a  big  one.  Across  Loon  Lake  two, 
three  mile;  quite  a  piece,  walk  to 
cave.  Lady  can  do  it;  walk  quick; 
paddle  quick;  no  pack;  one  canoe; 
Clifford  come  to-morrow — sun  up." 

To  feel  really  intimate  with  a  day 
one  must  greet  it  at  birth.  So  subtle 
and  elusive  is  the  dawn's  language, 
limited  and  elemental — like  all  youth 
— only  three  king  notes  separate  the 
tranquil  spaces  of  increasing  light — 
form,  colour  and  lastly,  sound. 

Four  figures  in  a  canoe,  gently 
moving  through  the  rushes  of  a  tiny 
stream  that  joined  Home  Lake  with 
Next  Lake,  did  not  seem  to  disturb 


the  harmony;  left  not  so  much 
trace  as  a  cow  moose  trotting  along 
a  game  trail  and  stopping  at  the 
ribbon  of  water  for  a  morning  drink. 
We  crossed  the  tracks,  clearly  seen 
on  the  sandy  bottom,  and  so  fresh 
that  the  water  had  not  obliterated 
them.  Just  a  gracious  bowing  of 
the  water  grass,  as  we  slipped  over  it, 
a  soft  swish  as  it  rose  and  the  scene 
was  as  before  our  passing.  On  the 
banks,  often  within  arm's  reach  on 
either  side,  hung  ripe  sarvis  berries 
and  brilliant  yew  and  holly  still 
glistening  with  frosty  dew.  All  was 
softness,  brilliancy,  mystery,  peace; 
I  could  have  laid  my  cheek  on  the 
bosom  of  that  morning  scene  and 
been  lulled  forever  in  a  sweet  con- 
tent, so  beautiful  was  it,  so  inde- 
scribably satisfying.  Only  in  a  canoe 
could  it  be  possible  to  thus  approach 
and  move  in  nature. 

The  sun  rose  to  the  eight  o'clock 
position  and  the  mood  changed. 
Quiet  yet  but  no  longer  hushed 
or  reverent,  we  debarked  to 
avoid  some  rapids  that  emptied 
into  Next  Lake.  Once  more  in  the 
canoe,  the  Indians  at  bow  and  stern, 


paddling,  Nimrod  got  out  his  sketch 
book  to  perpetuate  for  future  refer- 
ence, a  gorgeous  yellow  mushroom, 
probably  poisonous,  and  I  employed 
the  time  with  a  fishing-rod  securing 
four  wall-eyed  pike  for  the  camp 
table.  One  of  them  was  spawned 
and  grew  and  grew  to  a  goodly  three 
pounds  to  become  part  of  history, 
for  it  furnished  a  note  in  Nimrod 's 
journal  that  it  weighed  three  pounds 
and  its  "  stomach  was  full  of  craw- 
fish." 

The  following  lake  was  rather  rough 
under  a  rising  wind.  We  paddled 
fast  across  it,  too  fast  for  fishing.  It 
was  evident  that  Clifford  was  anxious 
to  reach  Loon  Lake  when  the  wind 
increased.  But  we  had  not  half 
crossed  the  long  portage  when  dark 
clouds  began  to  gather,  the  day 
had  grown  rough  and  masculine,  full 
of  energy  and  menace  and  when  we 
came  finally  to  Loon  Lake  the  waves, 
gathering  force  from  a  three-mile 
sweep  of  open  water,  were  rolling  in- 
shore vigorously.  We  had  difficulty  in 
getting  launched,  a  fierce  gust  of 
wind  threw  us  back  on  shore,  and 
Clifford  had  to  spring  into  the  shallow 


water  to  save  the  canoe  from  some 
rocks.  He  looked  at  the  storm- 
clouded  sky,  the  rolling  white-capped 
waves,  at  Nimrod,  and  finally  at  me; 
but  we  said  nothing,  not  realising 
as  he  did,  the  danger  of  such  a  sea  in 
a  heavily  laden  canoe.  Besides  to 
turn  back  or  give  up  is  the  last  thing 
to  commend  itself  to  us. 

Cat-like  he  jumped  into  the  bow, 
and  the  two  paddlers  battled  against 
the  waves  for  the  open.  The  wind 
storm  increased.  The  white-crested 
waves  rose  higher  and  higher.  We 
were  drenched  with  the  spray  and 
began  to  ship  water,  no  light  matter 
when  the  gunwale  was  barely  three 
inches  from  the  water  line.  Then 
the  black  raincloud  burst,  emptied 
itself  in  a  deluge,  and  we  were  fairly 
caught  in  a  perilous  place. 

The  Indians  exercised  all  their 
skill,  fortunately  great,  in  keeping 
the  canoe  in  the  wind.  But  the  craft 
was  filling  and  nothing  apparently 
to  bale  with. 

"Can  you  swim?"  I  shouted  to 
Clifford  above  the  gale.  He  shook 
Iris  head  without  turning  around, 
his  eyes  glued  on  the  approaching 


WE  BALED  AND  BALED  WITH  OUR  FOOLISH  UTENSILS 


billow  that  almost  rose  over  him. 
With  a  skilful  turn  of  the  paddle 
he  poked  the  nose  of  the  little  canoe 
up  through  it. 

"  Can  you  swim? "  I  asked  of  the 
stern  paddler.  Another  shake  of  the 
head.  Incredible!  these  men  living 
thus  precariously  on  the  water,  and 
not  able  to  swim!  I  blush  to  confess 
that  I  was  very  inexpert.  Only 
Nimrod  to  save  us  all.  The  canoe 
was  rapidly  filling.  It  must  be  baled 
out  soon  or  we  should  sink. 
Nimrod  and  I  cast  about  with  our 
eyes  for  something,  anything  with 
which  to  bale.  No  other  part  but 
our  eyes  moved,  for  we  all  were 
balancing  ourselves  to  a  hair  in  that 
cockleshell. 

Nimrod  spied  a  tomato  tin, 
brought  to  boil  water  for  tea,  and 
I  bethought  me  of  the  rubber  drink- 
ing cups  in  my  pocket.  Rapidly 
with  as  little  motion  as  possible  we 
baled  and  baled  with  our  foolish 
utensils.  It  was  a  fight  of  endurance. 
The  waves  were  gradually  drifting 
us  to  shore,  if  we  could  but  keep  the 
frail  craft  from  capsizing  or  sinking 
for  a  little  longer.  The  wind  was 


increasing.  It  seemed  hopeless,  when 
the  downpour  stopped  as  suddenly  as 
it  had  begun;  and  before  we  could 
manage  to  land,  far  from  where 
we  wanted  to  go,  the  sun  grinned  out 
at  us,  as  though  it  were  a  huge  joke, 
and  he  wished  to  say:  "I've  come 
out  to  dry  you  off.  It  does  n't 
matter." 

So  it  is,  out-of-doors,  the  elements 
are  somewhat  rough  and  inconsider- 
ate playfellows  sometimes,  but  one 
must  accept  them  with  all  one's  puny 
strength,  or  not  play  the  game — live 
in  cities  and  forget  the  gods. 

When  finally  a  dry  match  was 
found,  a  fire  built — Nimrod  has  a 
record  on  one-match  fires  with  wet 
wood — and  as  we  stood  around  it 
drying  clothes  and  eating  lunch,  I 
was  received  into  the  order  of 
canoeists,  having  successfully  passed 
through  the  initiation. 

Clifford  said  something  in  Indian 
to  his  friend.  Nimrod,  understand- 
ing a  little,  looked  at  him  enquir- 
ingly. "I  said,  Squaw  all  right.  No 
afraid!  bad  water,  very  bad.  She 
no  cry!  Take  her  anywhere."  And 
I  felt  that  honours  perhaps  when 


only  partially  deserved  are  sweetest, 
for  I  was  afraid. 

Determined  not  to  be  balked  we 
"did"  the  cave  by  a  long  tramp 
through  the  woods.  The  wind  and 
waves  had  subsided  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  evening  calm,  and  the 
return  journey  was  made  under  as 
great  a  charm  as  the  morning. 

But  its  fabric  was  different:  not 
promise  but  memories  was  the  woof, 
and  the  warp  held  threads  of  gold 
instead  of  silver,  of  gold  and  copper 
and  black;  and  of  purple,  the  em- 
blem of  experience. 

The  next  morning  we  ate  the  wall- 
eyed pike  and  waited  for  Creche. 

But,  since  I  was  the  one  inconven- 
ienced, I  insisted  that  we  ought  not 
to  wait  for  him  longer,  that  we  move 
to  White  Lake  and  let  Creche  follow. 
Secretly  I  felt  sure  that  he  would 
appear  before  the  day  was  over,  since 
the  night  previous  was  the"  Frenchies' 
ball";  but  the  spirit  of  charity  was 
still  warm  within  me  and  I  refrained 
from  giving  reasons  for  my  expressed 
belief. 

"  Since  Mrs.  Nimrod  seems  to  have 
a  special  wireless  on  Creche,  and 


knows  he  is  coming  to-day,  let  us 
start,"  pleaded  Sally,  coming  to  my 
aid,  and  it  was  so  ordered. 

As  the  camp  was  made  and  already 
provisioned  and  we  had  only  per- 
sonal luggage,  which  meant  running 
the  trail  but  twice,  once  for  that  and 
once  for  the  canoes,  we  could  afford 
to  start  late.  It  was  about  eleven 
o'clock;  Sally  and  Nimrod  and  I, 
each  in  a  canoe  with  some  luggage 
and  a  guide  paddling,  had  already 
pushed  out  from  the  landing  when 
we  heard  our  host's  shout  of  joy 
from  the  cabin  and,  like  great  ugly 
two-headed  birds  we  floated — again 
waiting  for  Creche. 

We  could  hear  Bobbie's  by  no 
means  courteous  orders  addressed 
to  the  camp  boy  to  "  shut  up  and 
hurry  up."  Then  Creche  appeared, 
a  black  ant  crawling  down  the  steep 
bank  to  the  landing,  with  a  huge 
brown  bundle  on  his  back,  my  thrice 
precious  and  welcome  belongings. 
He  threw  it  into  a  canoe  and  pushed 
off.  The  Cook  got  into  his  canoe 
and  pushed  off;  but  still  George 
waited  on  shore  with  the  last  canoe 
ready  for  our  host,  who  came  not. 


In  silence  we  waited.  The  woods  had 
taught  Sally  and  me  not  to  exercise 
our  feminine  prerogative  of  speech 
on  all  occasions  in  or  out  of  season, 
and  it  was  characteristic  of  these 
men  that  no  one  asked  a  question  of 
Creche  as  to  his  recent  whereabouts. 
It  would  all  come  out  in  time,  and 
there  was  plenty  of  time  for  that, 
but  not  to  get  started. 

George  glanced  twice  up  the  bank 
toward  the  cabin,  which  indicated 
his  state  of  mind,  for  he  never  showed 
emotion. 

"Crosby's  with  the  boss,"  re- 
marked our  camp  boy,  laconically  as 
he  too  rested  his  paddle  with  the 
motionless  fleet. 

Crosby  was  a  teamster  from  Trois 
Lacs.  So  this  much  we  knew,  our 
canny  Creche  had  not  carried  a  hun- 
dred pounds  forty-five  miles,  but 
had  ridden  in  state.  He  had,  how- 
ever, a  blotched  and  bleary  look 
which  indicated  loss  of  sleep  and 
bad  rum. 

Our  host  now  appeared  and  con- 
cealed whatever  his  feelings  might 
be  with  his  usual  genial  expression. 
Being  a  man  of  affairs,  he  did  not 


let  a  detail  swamp  the  whole.  Our 
comfort  was  now  assured,  Creche 
could  be  dealt  with  later,  and  it 
really  was  a  glorious  day  to  start  on 
a  pleasure  trip.  So  his  voice  rang 
out  cheerily:  "  I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Nim- 
rod,  you  will  have  need  of  that  tackle 
from  your  bundle  to-morrow.  We 
will  show  you  fishing  that  is  fishing, 
and  you  will  have  to  hold  up  the 
honour  of  the  family  and  catch  a 
record  breaker." 

Bobbie's  generous  heart  was  torn 
with  conflicting  desires,  his  own 
natural  ambition  to  catch  the  "big- 
gest ever,"  or  for  Sally  to  do  so,  or 
for  his  guest.  Nimrod  refused  to  fish 
and  I  had  only  been  led  into  angling 
by  the  assurance  that  I  should  catch 
a  "whale." 

We  halted  at  the  end  of  the  first 
carry  for  luncheon,  and  then  was 
produced  by  our  camp  boy  a  neat 
fabric  of  half-truths  that  would  have 
done  credit  to  the  most  skilled  news- 
gathering  reporter. 

He  had  missed  the  bundle,  yes — 
he  had  felt  it  his  duty  at  any  cost  to 
find  it.  He  had  travelled  until  it 
was  dark.  He  was  near  that  old 


deserted  shanty,  so  he  went  to  sleep, 
without  supper,  of  course;  was  up 
again  at  daybreak.  He  looked  and 
looked  for  it  all  the  way  to  the  River. 
He  was  puzzled,  for  he  was  sure  he 
had  noticed  it  on  the  wagon.  It 
was  getting  well  on  towards  noon; 
he  had  to  have  food,  and  besides  he 
might  learn  of  the  bundle  being 
picked  up  (clever  Creche)  so  he 
crossed  the  River  to  Trois  Lacs. 
He  spent  some  time  enquiring 
(quite  true),  and  knowing  that 
even  if  he  found  the  bundle, 
he  could  not  get  far  on  his 
way  that  day,  and  being  tired,  he 
decided  to  stay  in  "Trollaks"  and 
start  at  daybreak.  This  he  did, 
though  a  little  late  as  he  overslept 
himself  (twice  clever  Creche  to  tell 
so  much  truth)  and  he  had  gone 
about  four  miles  when  it  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that  the  road  here 
had  a  short  cut,  which  was  worse 
travelling,  but  he  might  have  taken 
it,  he  did  not  rightly  remember  doing 
so  as  the  Cook  was  telling  one  of  his 
yarns  about  then.  So  he  thought 
he  might  take  the  short  cut  now  and 
see,  and  there,  by  "the  head  of  the 


blessed  St.  Stephen,"  if  he  did  not 
discover  that  "  divil  of  a  roll"  not 
a  hundred  yards  from  the  main  road. 
It  had  rained  hard  in  the  night  and 
the  bundle  was  partially  soaked  in 
spite  of  its  waterproof  canvas  (alas 
too  true,  poor  me).  He  tried  to 
carry  it,  but  it  now  weighed  fully  one 
hundred  and  thirty  pounds.  He  was 
mighty  strong  but  there  were  limits, 
he  would  not  carry  that  much  forty- 
five  miles  for  any  man  "  alive  or 
dead,"  not  he,  much  as  he  would 
like  to  please  "the  boss."  So  back 
he  went  to  Trois  Lacs  to  get  a  team. 
He  found  that  Crosby  was  going  to 
haul  some  furniture  to  Te-vis-ca-bing 
soon  anyway,  so  he  finally  got  Crosby 
started  that  very  day  and  he  went 
as  far  as  the  bundle,  and  saw  it 
reloaded.  Then  as  he  had  done  the 
best  he  could,  and  could  not  hurry 
matters  any  further,  he  thought  he 
might  as  well  attend  to  a  little  bus- 
iness in  "Trollak."  He  promised 
Crosby  to  meet  him  at  the  lumber 
camp  the  following  morning  at  sun- 
rise, which  he  did,  and  here  they 
were,  having  come  through  in  a 
hurry. 


"  Why  had^he  left  Crosby  the  day 
before?"  Why  he  did  not  mind 
telling,  not  a  bit,  not  he.  He 
was  not  needed  anyhow,  so  he 
thought  he  would  slip  back  and 
take  his  girl  to  a  dance.  If  he 
wanted  to  do  that  and  travel  the 
rest  of  the  night,  he  guessed  that 
was  his  affair  (thrice  clever  Creche, 
the  actual  truth). 

The  story  seemed  plausible,  in 
any  event  what  could  Bobbie  do 
now?  It  was  past,  and  we  had  the 
satisfying  present.  How  good  it 
was,  that  dinner  under  the  trees! 

A  camp-fire  blazed  a  hundred  feet 
from  the  cook-fire,  with  a  folding  table 
and  camp  chairs  placed  for  dinner 
between  them.  Oh  the  joy,  the  sweet 
peace  of  the  camper's  life!  No  prob- 
lems come  to  vex  him  save  the  hour 
for  dinner.  There  is  no  world  but 
that  of  the  bone  and  the  muscle. 
Kings  may  die,  nations  rise  and 
crumble,  lives  come  in  and  go  out; 
it  matters  not.  The  rumble  of  the 
straining  world  sounds  not  for  him. 
The  iron  horse  comes  not,  nor  does 
that  modern  Ariel,  the  Marconigraph, 
seek  speech  with  him. 


Tree  and  bird  and  beast,  hot  sun, 
cold  winds,  rushing  torrents,  giant 
rocks  and  mighty  distances;  these 
are  the  gods  he  worships  with  pain 
and  fear,  with  strength  and  joy. 

While  dipping  my  hands  in  the 
lake  I  reached  over  and  kissed  the 
water,  and  the  widening  circles  from 
the  touch  took  the  message,  "There 
is  no  spot  in  the  whole  earth  where 
I  would  rather  be  than  here." 

I  never  should  have  known  the 
whole  truth  about  that  bundle  but 
for  the  strategy  of  George.  Drinking 
in  camp  is,  of  course,  tabooed;  but 
George  saw  that  Creche  had  not 
emptied  the  whiskey  flask  brought 
from  Trois  Lacs,  so  he  kept  urging 
the  willing  camp-boy  to  finish  it  as 
the  evening  wore  on.  One  by  one 
all  went  to  bed  except  George  and 
the  talkative  Creche,  whose  tongue 
now  was  running  three  ways  at  once, 
English,  French  and  Indian.  Our 
tent  was  close  by  and  while  Nimrod 
snugly  slept  on  his  rubber  bed,  I, 
wrapped  in  my  recovered  but  still 
damp  blankets,  heard  the  truth  of 
their  disappearance. 

Creche's  language  was  not  print- 


able  but  his  thought  was  clear 
enough.  A  few  of  the  fragments 
sufficed  to  lay  bare  the  undisciplined 
creature's  perfidy. 

" promised  Toinette  I'd  come 

— she's  la  belle  fille,  such  a  shape- 
prettiest  foot  on  ze  Ottawa,  she's 
my  girl — couldn't  have  zat — Fran- 
cois dancing  with  her,  no  by 

why  she's  soft  as  mush  on  him — I 
said  by  ze  head  of  St.  Stephen,  I'll 
be  zere — she  laugh — skrrrrrch — but 
Creche  he  savez  a  way,  he  dropped 
zat  bundle  soft-like,  didn't  want  to 
hurt  it — made — shure  it  was  hers— 
he  he,  women  hates  to  miss  zeir 
things — so  as  I'd  be  shure  to  have  to 
go  back — savez?  I  made  shure  it 
was  zere  all  right,  but  Creche  did 
not  bother  it — no,  no — he  he — I  tell 
you  my  girl  was  sprised  to  see 
Creche — she  gave  me  a  warm  wel- 
come -  -  and  I  fixed  ze  Frenchy. 
Shrrrch — if  I  did  keep  'em  waiting 
three  days — let  'em  wait — by  ze 
head  of  St.  Stephen,  Toinette's- 

But  I  had  heard  enough;  without 
remorse,  without  appreciation  of  his 
treachery,  proud  of  his  tricks,  what 
could  one  do  with  such  a  cave 


dweller?  Thankful  that  he  had  not 
given  "Toinette"  many  things  in 
the  bundle  that  she  would  have 
liked,  I  tossed  the  matter  aside 
and  took  up  the  thistledown  trail. 


CONCERNING    A    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE 
—THE    MUSCALONGE 

HIS  is  the  record  of  a 
scoffer  downed,  a  scep- 
tic converted.  To  hold 
one  end  of  a  line  while 
a  small  wriggling  thing 
is  struggling  stupidly 
to  get  away  at  the  other  end,  and 
further  complicated  by  wetness  and 
sliminess  and  sun-burnt  nose,  had 
never  appealed  to  me  as  either  amus- 
ing or  worth  the  doing.  To  be 
sure  I  knew  that  some  persons  prefer 
syncopated  music  to  classic,  yellow 
journalism  to  conservative,  it  being 
largely  a  matter  of  education  in 


taste,  and  I  was  quite  willing  to 
concede  that  I  might  be  in  the 
syncopated  yellow  stage  of  angling, 
and,  like  most  syncopated  yellow 
lovers,  had  no  desire  for  change. 

However,  fate  in  the  guise  of  Bob- 
bie, forced  the  education.  On  a  cold 
grey  day  with  an  east  wind,  sharp  as 
needles,  I  was  placed  in  the  middle 
of  a  canoe,  a  stone  was  in  the  bow, 
and  Bert  in  the  stern,  paddling.  In 
my  hands  was  an  eight-ounce  steel 
rod  with  a  contraption  on  the  cork 
handle  which  was  called  "  a  patent, 
adjustable,  automatic  reel."  On  it 
was  wound  two  hundred  feet  of 
"  three-ply,  double-snelled  Pierce 
peerless  suprema  "  line  finished  with 
a  "ruby  red"  hook,  two  feet  of 
"gloriosa"  gut,  a  three -dished 
spooner,  an  additional  "Daisy  fly," 
a  "merrivale  sinker"  and  a  "none- 
such float."  If  you  do  not  under- 
stand, it  is  no  matter,  neither  did  I. 

There  was  also  a  villainous  looking 
hook  on  a  long  handle,  called  a  gaff, 
and  a  stout  stick  to  "finish  him." 
A  fur  coat  and  a  foot-warmer  were 
the  mollifying  adjuncts. 

I  was  expected  to  go  slowly  pad- 


dling  about,  trailing  this  gaudy  string 
for  all  the  long  hours  of  this  raw, 
repellent  day  and  evolve  from  it  a 
"happy  time." 

I  let  out  line  twenty,  forty,  eighty 
feet,  and  reeled  it  up  again.  I  caught 
water  grass,  snags  and  even  stones. 
I  broke  the  Pierce  peerless  line  twice 
and  lost  the  Daisy  fly.  Two  hours 
went  by  in  this  sportive  way.  A 
fine  rain  which  "made  'em  bite," 
permeated  the  atmosphere  and  our 
clothing,  and  increased  the  sullen 
dreariness.  I  was  chilled  through 
and  through  and  smiled  sneeringly 
at  the  possibility  of  there  being  a 
Wagner ian  method  of  angling.  I 
longed  for  the  glowing  warmth  of 
the  camp-fire,  but  refused  to  go  in 
with  a  blank  record.  Fish  had  been 
known  to  get  on  hooks,  why  not  on 
mine?  It  could  get  on,  I  mean  bite, 
even  if  I  could  not  keep  it.  White 
Lake  was  the  home  of  the  Musca- 
longe,  Sally  had  caught  one,  yea, 
in  that  very  place,  that  weighed '  'over 
twenty  pounds."  It  had  taken  a 
good  hour  for  her  to  tell  about  it 
last  night. 

Five  hours  of  this  happy  time  had 


passed  and  no  bite.  That  time-worn 
recipe  for  a  sleigh  ride  must  have 
been  created  by  an  incipient  angler, 
"wrap  up  in  furs,  put  the  feet  in  ice- 
water  and  sit  in  a  snow  drift."  Bert 
pulled  down  his  hat  still  further  on 
the  wind  side  and  remarked: 

"  They  're  most  done  biting  for  to- 
day. ('Most  done'  forsooth,  with 
what  had  never  been.)  We  might 
go  around  this  bay  once  more.  It 
looks  a  good  place." 

Somewhere  doubtless  the  sun  was 
setting  gloriously,  Phoebus' s  chariot 
was  visible  triumphantly  pursuing 
its  brilliant  western  track,  but  here 
on  the  little  bay,  edged  with  jack 
pines,  only  deepening  shadows  told 
of  its  progress.  Conscientiously  I 
held  the  rod  in  the  approved  fashion, 
and,  to  forget  the  aggressive  discom- 
fort, had  sent  my  thought  far  awray 
to  southern  Italy  to  a  certain  moon- 
lit marble  terrace  perfumed  by 
orange  groves  in  bloom  and  musicked 
by  the  voluptuous  lapping  of  blue 
waves  upon  a  glistening  shore. 

Suddenly  a  strong  tug  ran  along  the 
line,  and  up  my  spine,  then  a  short 
tug  sent  a  kindred  electric  thrill. 


It  was  unlike  anything  I  had  felt 
before,  instantly  every  nerve  was 
alert.  There  was  no  need  to  be  told 
—I  had  a  bite  at  last! 

Bert's  excited  face  was  in  front 
of  me. 

"  Hook  'im  well,"  he  cautioned. 
"  Now  reel — gently" 

The  line  grew  taut,  I  could  not 
reel. 

"Ease  him  up, or  you'll  lose  'im," 
coached  Bert. 

The  reel  hummed  and  whirred  as 
it  fed  out. 

"Reel  'im  up,  or  he  will  get  too 
much  head,"  now  came  the  mandate. 
I  felt  rather  helpless.  How  was  one 
to  tell  what  was  going  on  under  the 
water  ? 

I  began  to  reel.  The  strain  was 
tremendous.  It  seemed  as  though 
I  must  be  towing  the  whale  that  had 
been  promised. 

"He's  a  whopper"  announced  the 
expert,  viewing  my  efforts  critically. 
"  Must  be  twenty  pounds.  You'll 
have  to  play  him  well.  Now  watch 
—he'll  dash  away  any  time.  Be 
ready  to  go  with  him.  Quick — reel 
out! " 


3i6 


The  line  spun  through  my  fingers, 
cutting  the  gloves  like  wire.  Again 
the  laborious  taking  in  line  with 
many  a  reel  out,  exciting  but  irri- 
tating. I  had  long  since  forgotten 
the  cold,  the  rain  or  anything  but 
the  unseen  will  that  operated  under 
the  veiling  water. 

At  last  I  managed  to  coax  that 
muscalonge  within  twenty  feet  and 
we  both  saw  it.  To  me  it  seemed 
almost  as  big  as  the  canoe  and  to 
land  it  with  that  tackle,  absurd. 

"He's  a  gee  socker,"  cried  Bert, 
"  and  awful  foxy.  He's  working  us 
near  the  rocks.  Don't  let  'im  get 
around  one  and  cut  the  line " 

"  Hurry,  Bert  and  get  the  canoe 
around  the  boulder! "  I  cried  des- 
pairingly. "  Hurry,  he  is  doing  it — 
Oh,  pshaw!"  and  I  collapsed  in  a 
heap  as  the  tension  was  suddenly 
released  and  what  was  left  of  the 
line  floated  to  the  surface.  My 
" biggest  ever"  had  won. 

I  returned  to  the  camp  circle 
empty  handed  but  full  of  experience. 
My  education  was  progressing,  I  was 
beginning  to  understand  some  of  the 
motives  in  this  Wagnerian  harmony 


— surprise,  anticipation,  combat, 
despair. 

The  following  morning  found  me 
eager  to  leam  more — exultation  and 
triumph  for  example;  but  that  day 
taught  me  only  patience  and  per- 
severance. It  too  was  rainy  and 
cold  and  deemed  to  be  "a  bad  day 
for  fish." 

Then  came  the  day  of  days. 

Bert  and  I  left  camp  early  accom- 
panied by  a  composite  prayer  that 
we  catch  something,  if  only  a  "  little 
one."  The  exhibition  of  so  much 
energy  unrequited  was  beginning  to 
get  on  the  camp  nerves. 

Bert  worked  the  canoe  along  the 
west  shore  of  White  Lake  and  back 
again.  It  was  a  clear  day  and  noon- 
day fishing  was  "no  good,"  so  we 
returned  to  camp  for  luncheon.  The 
Cook  only  was  in  charge,  all  the  others 
had  gone  off  hunting.  The  woods  were 
full  of  game,  moose,  deer,  wolves  and 
small  fry.  There  was  a  kind  of 
brooding  reproof  in  the  silence  of  my 
solitary  meal  of  canned  stuff.  The 
camp  relied  upon  me  to  supply  fresh 
fish  and  to  make  a  record  catch  and  I 
had  not  contributed  so  much  as  a 


minnow;  instead,  I  was  several  Daisy 
flies  and  gloriosa  catgut  to  the 
bad.  I  began  to  think  of  the  after- 
noon with  that  heavy  do-or-die  heart 
clutch  that  prefaces  the  making  of 
a  speech.  What  if  I  should  fail . 

The  Cook  was  telling  Bert  about 
a  wonderful  fish  which  a  "  party  he 
guided  had  caught,  a  thirty-pounder' ' 
on  a  pin-hook  or  some  such  combina- 
tion. Ruthlessly  I  interrupted  him. 

"Come  Bert,  let's  get  to  work." 

If  only  I  could  finish  up  the  bus- 
iness honourably  and  enjoy  myself 
once  again  in  the  unenlightened  way 
of  a  week  ago  before  muscalonge 
had  entered  my  horizon. 

It  came,  the  reward,  about  five 
o'clock  in  the  shape  of  a  sufficiently 
big  fellow.  For  two  hours  I  had 
reeled  in,  let  out,  given  his  head, 
coaxed  him  away  from  rocks  and 
played  him  with  what  skill  I  had 
acquired  from  my  failures.  The 
tricks  he  tried  to  play,  the  many  times 
he  almost  cut  the  line,  or  snagged  it, 
I  would  like  to  relate,  but  spare  you. 
I  was  almost  as  much  exhausted  as 
he  when  the  big  fellow  was  finally 
brought  to  the  boat  and  gaffed. 


There  is  a  fisherman's  rule,  I 
believe,  that  for  a  £ame  fish,  an 
ounce  of  tackle  to  a  pound  of  fish 
is  fair  sport.  I  had  caught  my  first 
game  fish  with  less  than  half  of  this 
allowance.  Nearly  eighteen  pounds 
of  muscalonge  and  exceedingly  lively 
weight  at  that,  with  an  eight- ounce 
rod  and  very  light  hooks  and  eyes — 
I  mean  the  gloriosa,  suprema,  none- 
such adjuncts. 

And  behold  now  the  wonder:  I 
seemed  to  hold  the  Open  Sesame  and 
the  fish  fairly  begged  to  be  caught. 
A  fourteen  *  pounder '  was  added 
in  another  hour's  work,  and  a  care- 
less twelve- pound  muscalonge  got 
on  the  hook  before  I  could  get  home. 
We  put  it  back  none  the  worse,  as  we 
had  enough  food  for  camp  use  and 
no  wish  to  be  called  by  a  little  name 
of  three  letters  that  begins  with  h 
and  ends  with  g. 

In  this  wise  did  I  learn  the  angler's 
secret,  and  to  faintly  appreciate  how 
one  might  become  enthralled  with 
the  piscatorial  symphony;  and  freed 
from  a  self-appointed  obligation,  once 
more  returned  to  me  the  beauty  of 
an  autumn  evening.  Again  the 


mournful  call  of  the  loon  greeted, 
and  as  we  glided  campwards  every 
little  cove  of  the  tree-shadowed 
shore  seemed  to  harbour  some 
thirsty  animal  that  might  mo- 
mentarily step  out  of  the  dark  woods 
to  the  water. 


SEVERAL   THINGS    ABOUT 
MOOSE 

AVE  you  ever  tramped 
through  sodden  woods 
all  day  in  the  rain?  If 
not,  you  have  indeed 
missed  something  inde- 
scribable. The  water 
laden  branches  send  inquisitive  show- 
ers that  tease,  like  the  questions  of 
a  prosecuting  attorney,  the  places 
that  one  cannot  protect,  and  bur- 
dened and  clumsy  with  rubber  cloth- 
ing, one  falls  rather  than  climbs  over 
and  around  obstacles.  After  a  time, 
unless  it  is  cold,  one  grows  accus- 
tomed to  the  general  clamminess 


and  remembers  only  that  it  is  a  good 
day  to  hunt.  Then  there  are  no  dry 
leaves  to  craunch  and  rustle  under 
foot  and  the  wild  things  stay 
quiet,  unless  disturbed,  and  if 
they  do  '  travel '  leave  a  legible 
account  of  their  doings  in  the 
tracks. 

It  was  the  day  after  the  musca- 
longe  episode,  and  having  acquitted 
myself  honourably,  though  painfully 
of  fish,  I  was  free  to  join  Nimrod  on 
his  daily  prowls  for  what  he  could 
see.  Bert  went  with  us  carrying 
a  small  back  pack  of  midday  food. 

Our  host  had  set  forth  early  in  the 
morning  with  George  to  locate  a 
good  camp  ground,  as  he  proposed 
to  move  from  Camp  Muscalonge 
still  deeper  into  .the  woods  where 
now  were  rising  the  notes  of  the 
moose.  The  last  of  September  was 
upon  us.  The  moose  calves  were  old 
enough  to  take  care  of  themselves, 
and  the  lady  moose,  no  longer  averse 
to  society,  were  practising  their  love 
songs  to  which  the  bulls  lent  no 
ungallant  ear. 

That  night  we  were  going  to  '  call ' 
for  moose  and  we  hoped  to  discover 


the   whereabouts   of   some  big  bull 
who  might  answer  our  summons. 

A  good  '  caller '  is  rare,  even  among 
the  guides,  and  our  men  had  ob- 
served Nimrod  with  only  half- 
concealed  amusement  as  he  procured 
some  birch  bark,  fashioned  it  into  a 
cornucopia,  sewed  it  with  roots  of 
black  spruce,  and  finally,  hoodoo 
of  all  hoodoos,  decorated  it  with 
a  big  moose  head! 

Clifford,  the  best  caller  on  the 
Mangasippi,  gave  him  the  love  notes 
of  the  cow  moose  and  the  challenging 
call  of  one  bull  to  another.  He  did 
this  not  as  a  teacher  to  a  pupil, 
but  politely,  without  expectation  of 
result.  At  the  cabin  Nimrod  had 
diligently  practised  and  soon  revived 
his  former  accomplishment,  and  now 
that  we  were  in  moose  country, 
longed  to  show  his  skill.  Bobbie 
also  had  practised  on  Nimrod 's  horn 
and  the  guides  openly  sneered. 

"That  would  drive  all  the  game 
out  of  the  country."  George  voiced 
his  opinion  candidly,  but  Bobbie 
only  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He 
could  afford  to  let  them  laugh,  as 
events  proved. 


It  was  a  misty  morning  before 
sunrise  when  the  canoes  stole  out 
from  the  landing  at  Camp  Musca- 
longe  and  took  their  several  ghostly 
ways,  Bobbie's  west,  Sally's  south, 
and  ours  north  toward  the  head- 
waters of  White  Lake.  The  canoe 
was  light,  Nimrod  at  the  bow 
paddle  and  Bert  at  the  stern.  An 
hour's  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
lilililiooo  of  the  loon,  and  the  dip, 
dip,  of  the  paddles  brought  us  nearly 
four  miles  to  the  boggy  willow 
marshes  of  the  outlet.  Beyond  were 
stretches  of  ragged  pines  that  were 
outlined  only  as  black  masses  in  the 
half-light. 

What  a  weird  place  it  was,  beau- 
tiful and  unreal  as  the  shadow  land 
of  poets.  The  silence  was  the  silence 
that  bound  the  world  before  humans 
were.  It  gripped  one  with  a  sense 
of  finality  as  though  never  could  it 
change,  and  yet  of  suspense,  for 
knowledge  told  that  outside  this 
witched  circle  of  water  and  trees 
the  world  was  in  motion,  the  sun 
was  marking  its  allotted  course,  and 
the  animals  too  were  astir,  drawing 
over  the  country  their  accustomed 


diagrams  that  spelled  quest  for 
food. 

So  portentous  did  the  grey 
silence  seem,  as  we  waited  and 
listened,  that  I  longed  for  a  release 
from  it.  My  breath  came  in 
shortened  gasps,  and  yet  when 
Nimrod  raised  the  horn  to  his 
lips  and  shrieked  forth  a  moosely 
summons,  it  seemed  a  profanation. 
Another  fifteen  minutes  of  silence, 
every  second  of  which  my  imagin- 
ation made  a  living  picture  of  a  huge 
creature  with  eyes  aflame  and  smoke 
curling  from  his  nostrils,  coming  full 
charge  down  the  runway  at  which 
we  waited,  and  dashing  into  the 
shallow  water  straight  for  our  canoe, 
an  avenging  spirit  scattering  retri- 
bution upon  the  hardy  mortals  who 
thus  dared  to  tamper  with  nature. 
But  the  grey  silence  continued. 

Nimrod  sent  another  call  of  un- 
earthly resonance  echoing  to  the 
outer  world.  It  came  back  to  our 
magic  circle  mockingly.  Slowly  the 
light  etched  detail  into  the  surround- 
ings. At  the  third  call,  I  no  longer 
feared  that  the  snorting  avenger 
would  come,  but  that  he  would  not, 


or  even  a  spike-horn  to  say  "how 
d'ye  do." 

Fifty  minutes  had  gone  by  when 
a  noise  like  the  snapping  of  a  twig 
in  the  woods  sent  an  electric  thrill 
of  tensest  listening  along  the  canoe. 
But  we  heard  no  more.  Doubtless 
a  bull  had  drawn  near,  also  listening, 
not  quite  sure,  perhaps  the  voice  was 
a  little  strange. 

Nimrod  raised  another  call  and 
we  distinctly  heard  a  big  animal 
getting  away  as  fast  as  it  could. 
That  last  call  certainly  had  not  been 
right.  It  might  have  been  too  close 
to  the  other,  or  it  needed  an  addi- 
tional note,  or  not  so  much,  or  was 
too  loud.  Undoubtedly  in  some  way 
moose  etiquette  had  been  violated. 

The  day  had  come  and  with  it 
the  necessity  of  another  kind  of 
hunting — the  stalk.  Quietly,  as  ever, 
we  landed,  turned  the  canoe  bottom 
up,  for  it  was  beginning  to  rain, 
and  searched  about  for  the  track  of 
our  fugitive  moose.  Not  that  there 
was  any  hope  of  seeing  him,  for  he 
would  go  miles  before  stopping,  but 
for  information,  a  natural  desire  to 
know  his  size.  When  we  found  it, 


the  track  was  that  of  a  big  bull  and 
after  all  not  very  much  alarmed.  He 
had  gone  away  quite  leisurely  and 
as  this  was  probably  his  home  local- 
ity, might  be  induced  to  return  that 
evening,  under  favourable  circum- 
stances. We  found  a  runway  evi- 
dently in  present  use  and  followed 
far. 

The  rain  was  not  energetic,  but 
pervading.  We  paid  no  attention 
to  it;  we  could  not  and  go  on. 
There  are  two  ways  of  treating  dis- 
comfort. Fight  it  and  it  conquers; 
ignore  it  and  it  is  subdued. 

It  is  wonderful  how  a  huge  animal 
like  the  moose  can  go  through  the 
woods,  between  and  under  branches. 
One  could  almost  believe  that  he  had 
some  device  of  folding  up  his  horns, 
as  the  Arab  his  tent,  so  easily  does 
he  go  anywhere  the  width  and 
height  of  his  body  will  permit.  The 
trail  was  thick  with  moose  sign. 
Tramp,  tramp,  drip,  drip,  a  misstep 
and  down  into  a  muddy  hole  I  went ; 
no  matter,  a  degree  or  two  more 
of  wetness.  As  Nimrod  was  help- 
ing me  up,  a  dozen  pounds  extra 
of  water-proof  clothing  not  being 


conducive  to  agility,  he  remarked  to 
Bert;  "This  is  a  queer  hole  to  be 
in  the  middle  of  the  trail.  See,  there 
are  moose  hairs  in  the  mud.  I  believe 
it  is  a  wallow." 

Bert  returned  and  the  two  exam- 
ined the  place,  as  carefully  as  experts 
would  a  diamond. 

It  was  an  oblong  depression,  per- 
haps four  feet  one  way  by  two  feet 
the  other,  sloping  off  toward  the 
edge.  It  was  in  a  bed  of  sandy  clay 
and  showed  the  effects  of  much  paw- 
ing and  fussing. 

"Believe  it  is,"  exclaimed  Bert. 
"Never  saw  one  before.  Heard  of 
'em  often — and  the  last  fellow  here 
was  left-handed." 

"Left-handed?"  I  repeated,  scent- 
ing the  picturesque. 

"  Yes  'm.  Most  animals  are  right- 
handed,  jest  like  us;  but  now  and 
again  you'll  run  across  a  left-handed 
chap." 

"How  can  you  tell?" 

"Well,  partly,  it  's  the  side  they 
lie  on  when  the  horns  are  growin' 
and  partly  it's  the  way  they  use  their 
horns.  Now,  you  see,  that  feller 
who  was  here  wasn't  very  large, 


probably  had  small  horns.  But  he 
whacked  the  bushes  always  to  the 
left.  See?  Have  you  ever  noticed, 
antlers  is  hardly  ever  reglar?  Right 
or  left  side  is  always  bigger. 
Now  that's  according  to  whether  he's 
right  or  left-handed.  If  he's  left- 
handed  the  horn  is  nat'rally  smaller 
from  being  used  more  and  broke 
off- 

"  Why  not  bigger  from  being  devel- 
oped more?" 

Bert  looked  at  me  pityingly. 

"Don't  work  that  way."  Nim- 
rod,  rapidly  sketching,  was  non- 
committal. 

The  rain  had  drizzled  itself  out 
when  we  got  back  to  the  canoe  at 
dark.  We  decided  not  to  '  call '  at 
the  outlet  that  night,  but  to  give  the 
big  moose  until  morning  to  forget 
his  alarm,  and  besides,  we  wanted 
to  try  'jacking'  at  midnight. 

Again  the  silent  easeful  passage 
through  the  water,  only  the  monot- 
onous dip  of  the  paddles  as  a  young 
moon  hung  itself  between  a  mass  of 
fluffy  clouds  and  a  black  horizon 
line.  Toward  the  north  were  strange 
unstable  lights  silvering  the  sky,  a 


330 


mere  tag  end  of  the  aurora  borealis, 
but  full  of  suggestion,  like  the  low- 
lidded  eyes  of  a  Buddha.  It  seemed 
to  push  far  away  the  merely  physical 
things,  the  cramped  position,  fatigue, 
hunger  and  general  soggy  chilliness. 

We  were  the  last  to  arrive.  Sally 
had  a  thrilling  tale  about  a  cow- 
moose  and  two  calves,  one  a  buck 
with  little  nubbins  of  horns.  She 
had  surprised  this  family  group 
quietly  feeding  on  marsh  grass  in  a 
desolate  place  that  had  once  been  a 
smiling  forest  full  of  arboreal  life, 
but  which  fire  had  reduced  to  a  mass 
of  fallen  timbers  with  a  few  naked 
masts.  A  lumberman's  dam  several 
miles  away  had  backed  up  the  water 
of  a  stream  so  that  the  whole  ruined 
region  was  submerged  two  or  three 
feet.  Fire  and  water  were  not  here 
the  rough  jokers  one  must  laugh 
with,  but  had  been  converted 
into  destroyers  by  the  ingenuity, 
and  for  the  benefit,  of  money  seeking 
man.  And  the  victims,  once  glorious 
age-old  trees,  still  bore  sad  witness 
to  the  power  that  had  wrecked  them 
years  ago. 

Sally  first  saw  the  mother  moose 


and  her  young  about  half  a  mile 
off  and  the  place  afforded  so  much 
shelter  for  a  silently  moving  object 
that  Arthur  gradually  pushed  her 
toward  them,  until  not  more  than 
fifty  feet  of  marsh  grass  and  water 
lay  between.  There  she  hid  and 
watched,  and  more  and  more  the 
charm  of  this  life  so  different  from 
her  own,  so  uncomprehended  by  us, 
held  her  in  sweet  excitement.  It 
was  inspiring  as  when  one  comes  on 
a  sculptured  group  by  Claud ian 
standing  on  a  pedestal  amid  other 
beautiful  things,  but  so  compelling 
attention  by  its  surpassing  grace  of 
line  and  modelling,  that  all  else  is 
unnoticed,  and  one  is  translated  to 
another  world  where  only  the  pure 
tones  of  harmony  are  heard. 

For  some  time  the  moose  fed, 
the  only  sound  being  a  faint  crunch- 
ing of  their  jaws  as  the  juicy  grass 
was  gathered  in.  A  lazy  ear  now 
and  again  flicked  off  a  fly;  the  cow 
calf  gave  her  back  a  comfortable 
rubbing  when  opportunity  offered 
in  the  shape  of  a  fallen  log  of  con- 
venient height.  The  bull  calf  being 
snagged  in  the  flank  by  a  sharp 


stick,  and  thinking  his  sister  respon- 
sible, made  a  retaliatory  lunge  at 
her,  suggestive  of  some  very  human 
little  brothers  and  sisters,  which 
shall  be  nameless.  Sister  promptly 
got  out  of  the  way.  Mother, 
unconcerned,  calmly  continued  to 
scratch  her  head  with  her  left  hind 
foot. 

Soon  after,  however,  her  attitude 
suddenly  changed.  She  raised  her 
head  in  attention,  gave  two  low 
short  grunts  to  the  calves  who  also 
became  alert,  and  then  rapidly 
led  them  away  from  that  peculiar 
odour,  which,  being  strange,  it  was 
safe  to  assume  was  hostile.  A  faint 
breeze  springing  up  had  disclosed 
Sally's  presence,  and  her  Claudian 
was  gone.  Had  it  not  really  been  a 
dream?  No,  the  memory  of  it  was 
too  vivid. 

As  we  all  sat  for  a  moment  holding 
the  picture  of  the  mother  group  in 
our  thoughts,  my  outward  vision 
took  note  of  something  not  far  off 
in  the  darkness.  It  was  a  small 
brilliant  orange  light  that  danced 
in  the  air.  It  darted  up  and  down 
like  a  live  thing — "Look,  what  is 


that?"  and  even  as  I  spoke,  Bert 
realising  what  it  -was,  ran  along 
"Broadway,"  the  trail  that  led  to 
our  sleeping  tents.  The  first  tent 
belonged  to  the  Tevi  and  it  was— 
on  fir  el 

We  all  rushed  toward  it,  but  were 
checked  half  way  by  a  loud  report, 
then  another. 

"My  God"  cried  Bobbie,  "Stand 
back!  My  box  of  ammunition — 
there  is  enough  to  blow  up  the  whole 
camp !  George,  Arthur — Bert,  stop ! " 
he  yelled. 

Hardly  knowing  what  to  do  we 
all  halted  except  Bert.  On  he  kept 
unheeding  and  amid  a  fusillade  of 
exploding  cartridges  from  Sally's 
shooting  belt,  he  dashed  into  the 
flaming  tent,  seized  that  box  of 
ammunition,  containing  several  hun- 
dred rounds,  and  dragged  it  forth 
to  safety. 

It  was  a  splendid  act  of  courage 
for  him,  an  awful  moment  of  sus- 
pense for  us. 

George,  who  was  checked  but  an 
instant  by  Bobbie's  entreaty,  was 
already  cutting  ropes  and  tearing 
down  the  blazing  canvas.  A  few 


334 


cartridges  from  Bobbie's  bed  where 
he  had  thrown  his  shooting  coat 
before  dinner,  continued  to  explode, 
and  bullets  flew  about  in  a 
scattering  fire,  until  Nimrod  could 
appear  heading  his  bucket  brigade, 
which  he  had  immediately  organised, 
pressing  us  all  into  service.  Every 
available  water  holder  was  passed 
along  the  line,  from  canvas  buckets 
to  coffee  pot  and  saucepans. 

Fortunately  the  woods  were  wet 
with  the  day's  drizzle.  The  wreck 
of  Bobbie's  luxurious  canvas  home 
was  bad  enough,  but  a  forest  fire 
was  far  worse.  That  we  strained 
every  nerve  to  avert,  and  when  at 
last  all  was  safe,  and  the  Tevi  could 
take  stock  of  the  blackened  remnants 
of  their  belongings,  we  all  rejoiced 
that  little  permanent  damage  had 
been  done  except  to  the  tent,  which 
having  been  parafrlne-coated  to 
make  it  further  waterproof,  had  been 
literally  licked  up  by  the  flames  until 
there  was  nothing  left. 

A  candle  lamp  left  burning  had  in 
some  way  slipped  from  its  upright 
position  and  started  the  blaze. 

As  there  were  to  be  two  jacking 


parties  that  night,  and  we  had  not 
intended  starting  much  before  mid- 
night we  had  wondered  how  we  were 
were  going  to  keep  awake,  for  usually 
the  lights  on'  *  B  roadway ' '  went  out  by 
nine  o'clock.  But  the  fire  alarm  had 
furnished  more  than  ample  diver- 
sion and  it  was  after  one  o'clock 
before  Bert  announced  that  the 
canoe  was  ready  and  Nimrod  and  I 
took  the  languid  blessing  of  the  Tevi, 
whose  interest  in  moose  for  that 
night  had  given  way  to  the  necessity 
of  settling  themselves  in  the  supply 
tent. 

A  jack,  as  every  moose  hunter 
knows,  is  a  lantern  whose  light  can  be 
turned  on  or  off  at  will.  When  a 
moose,  summoned  by  the  siren  love 
call  is  heard  coming,  it  is  flashed 
directly  upon  him.  The  theory  being 
that  the  sudden  flare  of  light  fascin- 
ates the  big  creature,  he  approaches  to 
investigate.  He  cannot,  of  course, 
see  the  humans  hiding  in  the  black- 
ness, and  then  is  the  moment  for 
the  man  and  his  gun. 

Of  all  the  perfidious  tricks  that 
man's  superior  intelligence  plays  on 
the  animal's  superior  instinct,  this 


seems  to  be  the  worst.  First  to 
entice  the  bull  moose  to  one  by 
means  of  a  love  call  on  a  horn,  and 
then  to  bewilder  him  by  a  great 
blare  of  light,  exposing  him  while 
the  gunner  is  in  darkness  and  the 
deed  committed,  is  too  much  like 
stabbing  in  the  back.  It  is  not  even 
"  sport,"  when  an  animal's  chance 
for  life  depends  upon  the  ability  of 
the  gunner  to  hit  a  six-foot  target 
a  few  feet  away. 

However,  we  were  to  find  that, 
the  gunpowder  element  being 
eliminated,  an  infuriated  bull  moose 
at  close  quarters  is  no  mean  ad- 
versary. 

We  paddled  swiftly  to  Big  Dam 
Lake,  the  place  where  Sally  had  seen 
the  moose  family.  It  might  easily 
be  a  favourite  resort  for  others,  and 
as  this  was  the  beginning  of  the 
mating  season,  a  suitable  place  for 
some  big  bull  to  be  reconnoitring. 
The  Tevi  had  expected  to  cover  the 
Big  Dam  Lake  territory  and  we  were 
going  to  the  outlet,  but  it  occurred 
to  us,  after  we  were  started  that  as 
they  had  decided  to  remain  at  home 
we  might  as  well  go  to  what  seemed 


to  be  the  best  place.  The  night  was 
dark  and  served  our  purpose  well. 
My  carbine  lay  in  the  bottom  of 
the  canoe.  We  did  not  intend  to 
use  it,  but  I  had  long  ago  learned 
not  to  go  far  in  the  woods  without 
a  gun,  if  only  to  summon  aid  in  case 
of  accident. 

Bert  held  the  canoe  stationary  by 
thrusting  a  paddle  into  the  sand  of  a 
little  beach  that  ran  under  a  steep 
bank.  By  the  aid  of  the  jack  through 
the  clear  water  we  could  see  many 
fresh  moose  tracks  of  all  sizes  on  the 
sandy  bottom.  Undoubtedly  it  was 
the  end  of  a  game  trail. 

It  seemed  a  good  place  to  try  our 
luck.  Nimrod  covered  the  jack  and 
got  out  his  elaborately  painted  horn 
of  birch-bark  and  let  off  a  long  call. 
Bert  nodded  approval.  It  had  the 
right  sound.  We  were  not  surprised 
nor  disappointed  that  it  brought  no 
response.  These  things  take  time. 
Nearly  an  hour  passed.  It  seemed  a 
whole  night,  every  moment  crowded 
with  nervous  listening.  The  unimag- 
inative persons  we  are  told,  miss 
much  of  the  joys  of  anticipation; 
they  also  miss  many  wild  visions  of 


338 


impossibilities  that  they  can  well  do 
without. 

After  the  fourth  call  came  an 
answer.  It  was  muffled  and  inde- 
terminate. Bert  and  Nimrod  sig- 
nalled that  it  could  hardly  be  any- 
thing else  but  a  bull.  Then  some 
distance  off  we  heard  a  moose  dia- 
logue, a  low  call,  an  answering  bull 
grunt,  then  another  grunt  still  far- 
ther away.  Then,  much  nearer,  the 
challenging  call  of  one  bull  to  an- 
other. It  was  answered  far  away: 
then  silence. 

I  was  greatly  stirred  by  this  wood- 
land duet,  but  Nimrod  and  Bert 
exchanged  puzzled  shrugs.  Some- 
thing seemed  not  orthodox. 

Again  we  heard  the  challenging 
call  of  the  bull  and  again  the  answer, 
much  closer.  Perhaps  it  was  to  be 
our  rare  privilege  to  see  two  bulls 
fighting  for  the  lady's  foot  or  heart. 

The  intense  listening  and  excite- 
ment was  so  great  that  when  the 
report  of  a  gun  thundered  out,  I 
almost  jumped  out  of  the  canoe. 
If  the  last  trump  had  sounded  I 
could  not  have  been  more  startled. 
We  knew  of  no  other  party  in  that 


region.  A  second  shot  made  the 
first  seem  less  uncanny  and  enabled 
us  to  trace  the  direction  from  whence 
it  came.  There  was  a  tongue  of 
higher  land  that  jutted  into  Big  Dam 
Lake.  We  were  on  one  side  of  it 
and  across  this  mile  strip  came  a 
third  shot. 

"  It  must  be  the  Tevi!  They  came 
out  after  all,"  exclaimed  Nimrod, 
even  forgetting  to  whisper. 

Our  feelings  were  not  entirely 
guestly  for  the  moment.  That  either 
Sally  or  Bobbie  would  kill  a  moose 
in  that  treacherous  way,  and  that 
in  close  season,  made  it  necessary  for 
us  to  reconstruct  our  ideas  of  them, 
and  was  sadly  depressing.  We  could 
not  accuse  them  of  deliberately  en- 
dangering our  lives  by  shooting  in 
the  dark  so  close  to  us,  for  they 
did  not  know  that  we  had  taken 
their  territory;  but  it  was  strange 
that  they  should  come  out  that 
night  after  all  their  refusals  to  do 
so.  Altogether,  we  felt  uncomfort- 
able. For  the  first  time  we  had 
struck  grit  in  our  friendship's 
cake. 

Nimrod  had  the  jack  light  trained 


upon    the    shore    eagerly    scanning 
every  foot. 

"By  George,  get  out  of  this— 
quick."  He  whispered  shrilly  to  Bert. 

I  seemed  to  hear  a  thudding  of 
hooves  and  a  snort,  and  then  saw 
coming  along  the  trail  out  of  the 
gloom  into  the  bar  of  light,  a  mad- 
dened staggering  creature  that  waved 
its  blades  of  horn  like  chiffon  on  the 
wind. 

It  was  then  that  Bert  broke  his 
paddle  in  his  haste  to  pull  it  from 
the  sand  and  nearly  dumped  us  all 
in  the  water  in  the  path  of  that 
onstriding  giant. 

"Put  a  bullet  into  him,  before 
he  charges  us,'*  hissed  Bert  as  I 
quickly  passed  him  the  remaining 
paddle  from  the  bow.  I  grabbed 
the  gun,  but  hesitated.  I  did  not 
want  to  kill  the  Tevi's  moose,  or  any 
moose  then,  though  it  did  seem  a 
difficult  place.  That  wounded  bull 
was  now  just  above  us  on  the  bank. 
Infuriated  with  pain  and  anger  he 
thrashed  about  only  waiting  to  make 
sure  of  the  exact  position  of  his 
enemy,  represented  by  that  madden- 
ing light 


The  next  instant  the  great  black 
bulk  charged  at  us  oil  the  high  bank 
and  crashed  into  the  water  along- 
side, with  a  shower  of  spray  that 
nearly  capsized  us  and  put  out  the 
jack  with  the  jar.  The  momentum 
sent  our  canoe  rocking  away  from  the 
struggling  creature.  Bert  did  won- 
derful work  with  the  paddle,  and  not 
an  instant  too  soon,  for  one  thrash  of 
those  horns  that  were  churning  the 
water  to  foam,  would  have  been 
enough  to  spill  us  and  then  we  would 
have  been  in  a  serious  plight.  Now 
I  was  indeed  ready  to  use  the  gun. 
It  was  no  time  to  dally.  But  soon 
it  was  evident  that  I  need  not 
use  it.  That  awful  jump,  I  doubt 
if  he  knew  what  he  was  doing,  had 
been  the  great  creature's  final  throw 
at  life.  Weaker  grew  his  struggles; 
and  the  waning  moon  that  night, 
rising  above  the  black  pine  hills 
shone,  a  huge  red  disc,  upon  a  pair  of 
antlers  that  rose  from  the  muddied 
water  almost  like  the  gleaming  teeth 
of  some  nether  world  demon. 

Quickly  we  paddled  to  meet  the 
Tevi  and  to  tell  them  the  sequel 
of  their  moose.  How  wounded  and 


342 


seeking  to  get  away,  it  had  taken  a 
familiar  runway  which  had  brought 
it  to  us — to  another  of  those  hateful 
gleaming  eyes  at  which  it  had 
charged  with  all  its  failing  strength. 
We  did  not  expect  to  be  believed, 
but  the  tracks  in  the  morning  would 
show.  Only  why  could  they  not 
have  waited  until  the  law  was  off. 
It  was  only  a  few  days  more. 

We  had  nearly  entered  the  little 
cove  where  we  had  located  the 
shooting,  when  a  canoe  almost  slipped 
past  us.  The  two  figures  in  it  were 
paddling  fast.  It  was  evidently  not 
the  Tevi. 

"  Good  evening, "  Nimrod  chal- 
lenged; "Are  you  looking  for  your 
moose?  It  is  around  the  point." 

The  men  rested  their  paddles  an 
instant. 

"  All  right,  savez, ' '  responded  a  gruff 
voice,  at  which  Bert  said,  "Hello, 
Bill,  when  did  you  come  from  Trol- 
laks?" 

To  this  came  an  extraordinary 
answer,  "  Humph,  I  suppose  you 
think  it  smart  to  talk,  go  ahead. 
Who  cares.  I'll  swear  it  was  you." 

"Who  is  it?"  I  asked. 


"Oh,  Bill's  a  head-hunter  for 
Beans'  taxidermist  shop." 

In  my  relief  that  the  Tevi  had  not, 
in  or  out  of  season,  decoyed  and 
butchered  that  great  beautiful  live 
thing,  I  called  out  mischievously, 
knowing  it  would  be  no  easy  task 
to  pull  that  hundreds  of  pounds  out 
of  the  water. 

"You  will  find  him  stuck  fast  in 
the  mud,  and  it  serves  you  right  for 
murdering  him  that  way  out  of 
season. ' ' 

I  think,  but  am  not  sure  that  this 
feminine  thrust  was  responded  to 
by  a  masculine  swear,  but  our  canoes 
were  rapidly  separating. 

Bobbie  never  has  recovered  from 
the  shock  of  our  asking  him  to 
believe  that  "pipe-dream"  of  the 
moose  that  charged  the  jack-light. 
Sally,  more  open  minded,  or  more 
politic,  gave  a  good  imitation  of 
belief.  As  Creche  had  to  be  sent 
back  to  Te-vis-ca-bing  for  another 
tent,  luckily  there,  we  must  still 
delay  a  day  or  two  in  that  region, 
and,  eager  to  prove  our  case,  we 
conducted  the  Tevi  to  the  scene  of 
the  tragedy. 


But  alas  for  the  cause  of  truth! 
Our  proofs  had  been  trampled  on 
by  the  head-hunters  in  getting  out 
their  trophy,  and  the  subject  of 
jumping  moose,  or  acrobatic  moose, 
almost  moose  at  all,  diplomat- 
ically ceased  to  be  a  matter  for  camp 
conversation. 


JEST    TRAVELLING       IN    WATER 
COUNTRY — CRECHE'S  ULTIMATUM 

1NCE  in  the  Rockies  a 
Mountaineer  met  our 
packtrain,  and,  after 
the  customary  saluta- 
tion, "How  dy,"  pro- 
pounded this  enigmati- 
cal question. 

"  Quite  an  outfit.  Are  you  goin' 
somewheres,  or  only  jest  travellin'  ? " 
Nimrod  debated  this  distinction 
and  finally  left  the  decision  to 
his  questioner. 

"  We  are  going  into  the  mountains, 
hunting." 

"Oh  I  see.  Jest  travellin1.  Thought 


perhaps  you  might  be  out  on  busi- 
ness, prospecting  or  something.  Well, 
so  long." 

A  thin  veil  of  gloom  hung  over 
the  camp  two  mornings  later  and 
it  was  not  due  to  the  chilly  fact  that 
we  had  breakfasted  by  candle  light 
at  five  o'clock.  We  were  to  move 
camp  that  day  to  the  spot  on 
Beaver  Lake  that  Bobbie  and  George 
had  decided  was  the  very  heart  of 
moose  country.  The  Tevi,  as  well 
as  Nimrod  and  I,  had  had  much 
experience  "jest  travellin'  "  in  horse 
country.  We  knew  its  limitations 
and  its  possibilities  in  the  matter 
of  transportation  of  luggage.  But 
not  so  in  canoe  country.  And  un- 
fortunately, as  it  proved,  Bobbie 
had  become  imbued  with  the  idea 
that  one  could  transport  a  very 
liberal  allowance  of  'duffel/  per 
canoes. 

"  A  big  canoe  holds  a  thousand 
pounds,  you  know,  and  if  one  likes 
a  few  extra  things,  it  only  means 
running  the  portage  another  time," 
he  said  comfortably.  This  speech 
was  called  forth  by  a  suggestion 
from  George  that  it  would  be  well 


347 


to  wait  another  day  and  divide  the 
moving,  as  we  did  when  establish- 
ing Camp  Muscalonge.  This  meant 
delay  and  we  had  been  delayed 
enough  already.  Iron  necessity 
would  call  his  guests  away  in  an- 
other week.  Bobbie  pointed  out 
that  the  first  moving  had  been  done 
in  "two  easy  days,  and  that  there- 
fore one  hard  day  would  do  the 
other?  Wouldn't  it?' 

George  thus  challenged,  did  not 
stand  his  ground.  He  merely  re- 
marked with  a  shrug,  "You  are  the 
boss."  So  what  happened  really 
was  his  fault,  for  he  knew  such  a 
move  to  be  an  impossibility,  and 
should  have  said  so. 

The  outdoor  man,  born  and  reared 
in  the  open,  will  take  chances  any 
time  rather  than  incur  the  possi- 
bility of  being  thought  cowardly. 
Is  it  a  sort  of  fatalistic  attitude 
that  springs  from  dealing  with  forces 
stronger  than  themselves,  stronger 
in  every  way,  save  for  the  uncon- 
querable will  that  makes  humans 
divine  ? 

So  we  breakfasted  before  day- 
light, and  tried  not  to  notice  the  air 


348 


of  dogged  reserve  with  which  each 
man  worked.  He  knew  it  could 
not  be  done  but  he  was  willing  to 
try,  since  that  was  what  he  had  been 
engaged  for,  and  leave  the  issue  to 
fate.  Creche,  as  usual  the  only 
talkative  one,  expressed  his  mixed 
ideas  in  equally  mixed  dialect. 

"Shure  Mr.  Tevis,  mon.  We'll  try 
ze  thrick.  Zere  is  no  buck  on  ze 
Ottawa  can  carry  more  zan  Creche. 
Grace  a  Dieu,  je  suis  fort  comme  le 
boeuf.  Creche  will  show  you  what 
a  man  can  do  to-day.  I  sucked 
strength  in  wif  my  mower's  milk, 
and  her  mower  was  an  Indian  prin- 
cess who " 

At  this  point  the  Cook  threw  at 
him  an  empty  water  pail. 

"Here  fill  that,  and  work  your 
legs  instead  of  your  jaw  for  a  while. ' ' 

There  were  no  idle  hands  that 
morning,  and  by  ten  o'clock  we 
actually  had  gotten  packed  up  and 
all  the  stuff  moved  across  the  Lake 
to  the  first  portage,  which  was 
about  a  mile  long. 

It  was  there  that  Bobbie  got  his 
first  shock.  Two  of  the  canoes  had 
made  a  second  trip.  He  had  no 


idea  that  our  belongings  would  not 
go  into  the  five  canoes.  Sally  at 
the  risk  of  being  mobbed,  suggested 
that  "like  dough  they  seemed  to 
swell  when  needed." 

"But  after  all,  even  if  we  do  have 
too  much  for  the  canoes,  it  is  not  very 
serious.  It  will  not  take  long  to 
run  back  on  the  water  as  we  must  do 
on  the  carrys,"  said  our  host. 

It  seemed  easy  to  me — then.  Bert 
overhearing  this  remark  smiled 
grimly,  swung  a  seventy-five  pound 
top  pack  onto  his  hundred-pound 
back  pack  and  trotted  along  the  trail. 
One  by  one,  the  men  took  up  their 
burdens  adjusted  tump  lines  and 
disappeared.  There  was  no  hurry 
for  us.  Bobbie  estimated  that  each 
man  would  have  run  the  trail  three 
times. 

Lading  ourselves  with  guns,  fish- 
ing tackle,  cameras,  all  the  goodly 
paraphernalia  of  sport,  we  four  filed 
along  a  trail  which  showed  the  hob- 
nailed prints  of  George  and  Arthur, 
the  pointed  shape  of  Bert's  American 
gear,  the  oblong  outline  of  Creche 's 
moccasined  foot,  and  the  shapeless 
tracks  of  the  Cook,  who  had  encased 


his  "left  walker  wounded  in  the 
war"  and  now  tortured  by  rheu- 
matism, in  wrappings  of  gunny 
sack. 

It  was  a  jewelled  morning.  Delib- 
erately we  cast  away  carking  care 
and  gave  our  senses  to  the  exquisite 
bit  of  the  world  about  us.  The  sun- 
light, brilliant  and  calm,  dappled 
through  a  grove  of  spruce  and  black 
birch  in  great  splotches  of  yellow, 
seeking  out  the  dainty  arbutus  that 
spread  its  dark  serrated  leaves  in 
modest  profusion,  and  flashing  into 
greater  beauty  the  strange  shape 
and  colours  of  the  pitcher  plant, 
the  orchid  of  the  North. 

The  grove  ended  at  the  bank  of 
a  stream  which  we  crossed  on  step- 
ping stones  and  forthwith  entered 
a  vast  clearing  on  which  the  sun 
beamed  its  full  noon  rays  unchecked. 
A  generation  ago,  it  too  had  nour- 
ished a  proud  forest  of  primeval 
growth,  but  the  lumberman's  axe 
had  smitten  it  away  and  the  earth 
had  long  since  donned  its  resigna- 
tion garb  of  waving  feathery  grasses, 
scarlet  and  blue-fruited  bushes,  and 
wide  stretches  of  the  free- flowering 


bracken,  now  in  autumn  browns 
and  sun-dried  sweetness. 

In  the  tempting  fragrance  and 
warmth  of  this  we  dropped  to  rest. 
The  men  had  all  passed  us  on  the 
return  trip  and  now  coming  toward 
us  was  a  big  canoe,  bottom  side  up. 
The  trim  athletic  grey  legs  under  it 
belonged  to  Bert.  It  passed  with- 
out comment.  Another  canoe  equal- 
ly large,  came  walking  toward  us  on 
sturdy  brown  legs  in  hobnailed  boots. 
It  also  passed  in  silence.  Another 
smaller  canoe  appeared  on  some- 
what bowed  legs  and  moccasined 
feet.  It  did  not  silently  pass.  When 
it  got  within  hearing  distance,  it 
began  to  puff  and  blow  and  finally 
swung  off  its  base  altogether  and 
descended  to  the  ground,  revealing 
Creche,  who  mopped  his  dripping 
brow. 

"You'll  do  well  to  rest,  since  ye's 
can.  Le  soleil  bride  comme  tons. 
II  fera  une  bonne  omelette  de  moil" 

"Can  all  the  stuff  be  brought  in 
another  trip?"  asked  the  host. 

Creche  swung  the  canoe  into 
travelling  position,  carefully  shifted 
it  to  the  proper  balance,  and  then 


352 


flung    out    carelessly.    "Shure!  one 

more or  t'ree or  five;"    and 

went  his  way  whistling  a  chanson 
"A  la  ires  bonne,  a  la  ires  belle"  which 
stopped  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of 
sight. 

At  one  o'clock  we  and  our  chattels 
were  occupying  plenty  of  space  at 
the  head  of  a  small  stream  that  led 
into  Big  Dam  Lake.  The  men  had 
run  that  portage  five  times  each; 
twelve  miles  already,  half  of  it 
heavily  laden.  Breakfast,  eight 
hours  ago,  long  since  had  been  for- 
gotten. They  must  have  food  at 
least.  We  were  less  than  half  way 
and  the  "long  portage"  yet  to  come. 
The  muscles  and  veins  on  the  men's 
necks  stood  out  like  whipcords  and 
their  hands  trembled  from  strain 
and  fatigue.  But  they  denied  being 
tired,  only  "hot  and  hungry." 

I  have  frequently  observed  that 
the  voyageur  is  ashamed  to  be  tired, 
but  proud  of  being  hungry.  It  was 
four  miles  on  Big  Dam  Lake. 

"The  canoeing  would  be  a  rest," 
quoth  Bobbie. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  four  miles. 
Our  canoe  was  undeniably  top-heavy. 


11  It's  all  right,"  Bert  reassured,  "We 
can  keep  it  balanced  when  we  get  in." 

By  dangerously  overloading  the 
canoes  we  managed  to  get  all  the 
luggage  aboard  save  "a  few  things 
we  did  not  need  immediately  and 
could  be  sent  for  to-morrow." 

A  jeering  friend  in  a  dream  city, 
called  New  York,  had  presented 
me  with  two  pairs  of  "water  wings." 
I  may  briefly  state  for  the  benefit 
of  those  who  have  never  made  the 
acquaintance  of  these  little  objects, 
that  they  are  irregular- shaped  bags, 
like  the  map  of  North  and  South 
America,  joined  by  the  Isthmus  of 
Panama.  When  inflated  and  placed, 
the  Isthmus  across  the  body  and  the 
Americas  under  the  arms  of  a 
person  in  the  water,  they  are  sup- 
posed to  keep  said  person  from  sink- 
ing. When  I  watched  Sally  crawl 
into  her  canoe  while  three  men  held 
it  from  capsizing  and  gazed  awe- 
somely at  the  subsequent  "trim- 
ming" and  adjusting  of  its  bulging 
contents  to  make  it  ride  even,  I 
forthwith  handed  her  a  pair  of 
aniline-pink  water  wings  as  a  token 
of  my  affection.  She  was  inclined 


354 


to  be  trivial  about  my  gift  until  she 
saw  a  similar  pair  soaking  in  the 
water  beside  me. 

I  mention  this  incident  as  it 
occasioned  the  only  shaft  of  amuse- 
ment that  pierced  the  gloom  slowly 
deepening  upon  the  men.  It  was 
like  the  odour  of  a  bear's  skull  that 
Clifford  had  killed  the  winter  before 
and  hung  on  a  stick  near  the  trail, 
the  pervasiveness  of  which  had 
fraught  the  lunch  hour  with  un- 
pleasant suggestion. 

A  horse  with  a  load  beyond  its 
capacity  bucks  it  off  or  lies  down. 
A  top-heavy  canoe  is  like  an  un- 
broken mustang.  It  follows  no  laws. 
It  turns  and  whirls  and  does  queer 
lurches  that  give  one  the  unwelcome 
feelings  of  a  sudden  up- shoot  ing 
elevator,  and  ours  was  withal  so 
cranky  and  unmanageable  that  only 
Bert's  expert  paddling  again  and 
again,  when  we  were  almost  over, 
saved  our  possessions  at  least  from 
a  watery  annihilation.  Of  course  / 
was  quite  safe  for  had  I  not  my 
water  wings?  Ready  for  immediate 
service,  they  trailed  in  the  water,  two 
fat  pink  balloons,  and  I  have  no 


doubt  that  they  averted  disaster, 
like  the  possession  of  an  accident 
policy;  for  witnes's  the  misfortune 
of  the  Cook,  minus  the  "W.  W." 
His  canoe  struck  a  snag,  turned 
turtle  with  a  facility  that  was  shame- 
less and  deposited  that  rheumatic 
veteran  in  three  feet  of  water  with 
his  cooking  utensils  and  food.  There- 
fore, we  were  all  concerned.  Lucky 
it  was  for  us  that  it  happened  on  a 
sandy  bar  and  that  the  food  was 
nearly  all  in  tins  and  waterproof 
bags. 

This  mishap  did  not  tend  to 
disseminate  ease  in  the  overcharged 
atmosphere  of  the  party.  As  we 
reached  the  landing  of  the  long 
portage  a  horrible  odour  greeted 
us  beside  which  the  bear's  skull  had 
been  as  child's  play.  Pestilence 
and  death  seemed  abroad.  Nimrod 
quickly  found  the  cause — another 
pleasantry  of  Clifford's.  As  wolves 
are  the  enemies  of  game,  it  was  his 
province  as  game  warden  to  exter- 
minate them.  A  grey  wolf  had  been 
caught  in  a  trap,  and  in  order  to 
make  him  a  warning  for  his  fellows 
to  quit  the  neighbourhood,  Clifford 


had  suspended  his  victim  from  the 
branch  of  a  tree.  This  was  months 
ago.  Few  wild  animals  will  go  near 
an  unusual  object,  especially  with 
man  taint  on  it,  and  there  it  had 
remained  undisturbed,  given  over  to 
slow  decay  and  taking  its  revenge 
by  polluting  the  air  for  yards  around. 

It  was  to  this  distressing  accom- 
paniment that  Bobbie  reviewed 
the  situation.  It  was  now  four 
o'clock.  By  the  most  cheerful  reckon- 
ing we  could  not  hope  to  reach  the 
new  camp  ground  before  ten  and  it 
grew  dark  by  seven.  To  be  sure 
there  ought  to  be  a  moon  and  "  the 
boys  would  have  to  come  back  the 
next  day  anyway  and  could  gather 
up  what  things  we  lost  in  the  dark- 
ness." Bobbie  did  not  want  his 
guests  to  suffer  another  day's  delay 
in  tiresome  transit,  since  their  time 
was  limited.  To  camp  there  was 
impossible,  the  wolf  claimed  it  all. 
Therefore  he  decided  to  push  on. 

Again  another  pile  was  left  to  be 
"brought  to-morrow"  and  he  judged 
that  three  trips  apiece  would  take 
the  necessities.  Even  that  would 
make  twelve  miles  more  for  each. 


357, 


The  burden  of  possessions  weighed 
heavily  upon  us.  I  thought  of  Bert's 
story  of  the  divided  pocket  hand- 
kerchief  and  felt  that  one  would  be 
courageous  to  keep  even  the  half 
with  the  hole  in  it.  The  hole  would 
have  been  burden  enough. 

The  long  portage  trail  was  rough, 
hilly  and  boggy  and  obstructed  by 
fallen  trees,  but  Sally  and  I  hurried 
along  to  "get  away  from  the  dead 
wolf,"  we  said.  I  dare  say  we  felt 
alike.  Not  inheriting  the  blood  and 
traditions  of  Indian  priests,  we  did 
not  enjoy  the  idea  of  human  sacrifice, 
nor  care  to  watch  the  efforts  of  our 
guides  with  those  ungodly  packs. 
Several  times  we  had  found  it  ex- 
pedient to  rest,  light  though  our 
pockethandkerchiefs  were,  and  when 
we  reached  the  next  water,  the  sun 
was  waning,  somewhat  earlier  than 
usual,  as  it  was  beginning  to  snow. 

"  The  snow  will  make  good  track- 
ing" we  said,  trying  to  be  cheerful. 
This  trail  end  was  an  impossible 
place  even  for  a  one-night  camp. 
It  was  cut  through  a  dense  grove  of 
jack  pines  and  down  timber.  There 
was  not  even  a  shore.  The  steep 


clay  bank  was  fringed  with  alders 
and  dropped  abruptly  into  the 
water. 

"We  cannot  stay  here,  that  is 
sure,"  puffed  Bobbie  after  he  had 
thrown  down  a  pack  that  was  too 
heavy  for  him  and  gotten  his  breath 
a  little,  though  he  was  still  purple. 
Nimrod  now  came  staggering  up, 
pale  and  exhausted,  with  my  bundle 
of  bedding.  I  was  seriously  alarmed 
for  him  as  he  rested  the  pack  on  a 
stump  and  thus  let  it  slip  to  the 
ground. 

Sally  surveyed  the  two  heroes  and 
remarked  that  it  might  be  well  to 
remember  that  we  were  there  for 
pleasure  and  not  to  kill  ourselves, 
whereupon  Bobbie  voiced  his  grow- 
ing irritation.  He  was  not  angry 

with  Sally perhaps  it  is  the  duty 

of  wives,  now  and  then  to  open  the 
husbandly  safety  valve,  even  though 
they  catch  some  of  the  steam- 
but  he  was  a  man  accustomed  to 
successfully  carrying  through  big 
enterprises  and  this  little  muddle 
was  galling. 

"  I  want  you  not  to  talk  nonsense, 
Sally.  We  are  going  on  I  say.  I 


gave  George,  as  spokesman  of  the 
boys,  an  opportunity  to  back  out 
last  night.  He  knew  that  it  could 
not  be  done  and  did  not  say  so. 
Now  they  can  take  their  medicine." 

"But " 

"This  is  no  time  for  'buts,"  he 
called  as  he  started  back  on  the 
trail,  limping  sadly. 

"Bobbie,  Bobbie,  you  will  hurt 
yourself.  Comeback!" 

Too  late,  the  irate  Bobbie  dis- 
appeared and  Nimrod  followed,  stay- 
ing only  long  enough  to  light  a  fire 
for  us.  It  had  to  be  a  tiny  fire  in 
the  trail,  as  there  was  not  a  foot's 
space  clear  from  logs  and  trees; 
and  Sally  and  I  were  left  to  await 
developments. 

It  seemed  a  long  time,  we  were 
hungry  and  cold  and  depressed  with 
a  sense  of  foreboding.  At  last  the 
Cook  appeared,  empty-handed.  He 
limped  along  slowly  and  sat  down 
on  a  log  with  his  back  to  us.  He 
said  never  a  word,  but  the  fact  that 
he  had  "struck"  was  apparent  in 
every  line  of  him. 

Next  came  Arthur.  He  flung  his 
pack  upon  the  ground  and  sat  upon  it. 


Bert,  immediately  behind  him, 
slipped  his  huge  pack  oft  on  a  log 
and  slowly  straightened  himself  to 
an  upright  position.  He  slid  down 
the  steep  bank  and  into  a  canoe 
where  he  could  surreptitiously  bathe 
his  head. 

Each  had  the  air  of  doing  nothing 
more,  no  matter  what  happened. 
We  all  sat  like  graven  images,  so 
motionless  and  quiet  that  a  weasel, 
shyest  of  creatures,  actually  played 
about  among  us.  It  darted  over 
Sally's  skirt,  and  getting  bolder, 
over  my  foot.  It  sniffed  the  straps 
of  the  roll  under  Arthur  and  ate 
some  bread  crumbs  that  had 
tumbled  out  of  the  Cook's  pocket 
when  he  had  put  on  his  coat. 

Nimrod  and  Bobbie,  arriving  to- 
gether, at  last  broke  the  spell.  Puf- 
fing and  panting,  purple  and  white 
they  dropped  their  packs.  Cer- 
tainly neither  had  ever  carried  such 
loads  before,  but  they  wanted  to 

show  those  men that  it  was  not 

such  a  task.  Silently  they  stood  and 
read  the  message  of  silence  that  was 
presented  there  in  the  snowy  woods. 

Then    Nimrod    started    to    chop 


WE  ALL  SAT  LIKE  GRAVEN  IMAGES 


363 


some  wood  for  the  fire  that  sadly 
needed  replenishing,  though  no  one 
had  offered  to  lift  an  axe. 

Bobbie  went  from  red  to  white 
with  anger.  He  opened  his  mouth 
to  speak  and  shut  it  again  tight.  It 
was  unthinkable  that  these  men 
would  leave  us  stranded  here  in  the 
woods  and  with  women  in  the  party 
too,  and  yet  that  ugly  sullen  silence 
was  ominous. 

Fortunately,  our  mountebank  of 
a  camp  boy  now  came  along  puffing 
vociferously,  like  an  engine  blowing 
off  steam.  As  usual  he  was  pre- 
paring a  dramatic  entrance.  Down 
came  the  pack  with  a  great 
flourish. 

"Zere!  Zat  is  ze  last  ounce  that 
goes  on  Nat  Creche' s  back  to-night. 
Not  if  you  was  ze  Gabriel  Angel  or 
ze  devil  himself!  Zere's  man's 
work  and  zere  is  horse's  work.  I'll 
be  no  mule  for  any  body.  I'll  give 
you  a  day's  work,  yes  and  two  days' 
work  but  I  won't  be  a  pack  horse, 
not  if  I  know  it.  I'll  hit  the  trail 
first!  And  the  boys  are  with  me 

One  by  one  they  nodded.  There 
it  was,  out mutiny.  Our  host's 


face  was  a  study.  How  he  would 
have  liked  to  tell  them  what  he 
thought  about  it,  but  it  seemed 
wiser  not.  George  had  come  up 
during  Nate's  tirade. 

"Are  you  in  this  conspiracy  too?" 
Bobbie  asked  of  him,  in  true  et-tu- 
Brute  style.  George  shrugged  his 
shoulders  shamefacedly. 

"We  cannot  possibly  stay  in  this 
trail  and  there  is  not  room  to  put 
up  a  tent,"  said  Bobbie  severely 
as  though  it  was  entirely  George's 
fault,  and  perhaps  it  was.  "It  is 
snowing  and  the  ladies  must  have 
some  shelter;  and  I  insist  that  they 
get  it." 

"  We  stay  right  here,  or  Nate  Creche 
does  any  way,  and  helps  himself  to 
grub  too — I  don't  care  who  says 
what " 

"  Shut  up  you  empty-headed " 

but  I  will  spare  you  Bobbie's  re- 
marks so  long  pent  up.  He  stopped 
shortly. 

,  Swearing  at  them  was  no  way 
to  treat  men  whose  self-restraint 
was  worn  thin  by  fatigue  and  re- 
bellion; besides  Bobbie  was  genuine- 
ly sorry  for  them  and  for  himself 


365 


and  for  the  whole  predicament,  still 
he  could  not  give  in. 

George's  mental  processes  were 
slow,  but  sound.  He  now  made 
speech,  his  drawl  more  pronounced 
than  usual,  and  to  our  infinite  relief 
pointed  a  way  by  which  our  host 
could  retreat  with  dignity. 

"If  I  remember  rightly,  Clifford 
has  a  winter  shack  somewheres  on 
this  lake.  He  told  me  how  to  find 
it.  It  might  do  for  the  ladies." 

"Very  well,  get  the  lantern  and 
we  will  hunt  for  it.  Meanwhile  boys, 
Bobbie  added  diplomatically,  "you 
all  better  help  the  Cook  find  some 
food." 

Hot  soup  has  palliated  many  a 
threatening  situation,  both  domestic 
and  national,  and  it  served  its  peace- 
ful mission  that  night.  The  danger 
of  the  abrupt  termination  of  our 
pleasure  party  was  averted,  although 
Creche,  who  could  not  be  verbally 
suppressed  when  excited,  said  enough 
in  his  spasmodic  mutterings  to  make 
it  clear  that  the  acid  of  rebellion 
had  almost  destroyed  the  sense  of 
justice  and  it  would  not  have  taken 
many  ill-chosen  words  on  Bobbie's 


366 


part  to  have  left  him  facing  the 
problem  of  desertion,  "  ladies  or  no 
ladies." 

But  a  wise  general  knows  when  to 
surrender.  Bobbie  returned  with 
the  welcome  news  that  the  little 
log  shelter  had  been  "located"  and 
leaving  the  guides  to  rest  as  best 
they  could  on  the  damp,  uneven, 
log-choked  ground,  we  put  our  bed- 
ding in  two  canoes  and,  like  spirits 
of  the  dark,  stole  across  the  tiny 
lake,  where  a  pale  and  watery  moon 
now  shining  through  the  thin  snow 
veil,  revealed  a  ghostly  object  not 
wrought  by  nature.  A  tiny  dirty 
place  it  was,  hardly  room  for  the 
four  of  us  on  the  floor,  but  we,  in- 
different to  all  but  the  claims  of 
tired  muscles,  and  curtained  by  the 
dark,  crawled  into  our  sleeping  bags 
and  soon  at  least  some  of  us  were 
vying  with  the  wood  borers  in  pro- 
ducing rhythmic  noise  upon  the 
midnight  air. 


xviu. 


ONE    MOOSE    IN    PARTICULAR 


HOSE  early  October 
days  at  Camp  Moose 
were  cold  but  delight- 
ful. We  were  truly  in 
the  very  heart  of  moose 
country.  Tracks  were 
everywhere  and  we  had  even  heard 
two  cows  calling  at  different  times  in 
a  little  bay  not  half  a  mile  from 
camp.  Just  at  dusk  the  first  call 
came  thrilling  through  the  air.  It 
seemed  as  though  some  magic  power 
had  lifted  the  veil  that  shuts  out 
man  from  the  four-foots,  and,  thus 
revealed,  the  strange  beauty  of  it 
held  me  breathless. 


Although  the  party  was  entitled 
to  four  moose  under  the  law,  we 
intended  to  take  but  one.  Bobbie 
and  Sally  had  each  killed  a  moose 
the  year  before,  so  again  to  the  guest 
fell  the  favour  of  depriving  some 
majestic  creature  of  his  life  that  his 
head  might  bear  witness  of  his  glory 
long  after  his  allotted  time  had 
passed. 

I  accepted  the  office  of  gun  bearer 
because  Bobbie  would  have  felt  a 
mooseless  trip  to  be  lacking  a  neces- 
sary savour — and  there  was  a  cer- 
tain wall  space  in  an  Eastern  country 
home  that  had  long  proclaimed  itself 
an  appropriate  setting  for  a  "big 
head."  Therefore  if  fate  offered  a 
sufficiently  large  one  I  was  to  play 
Diana. 

In  order  to  assist  fate  as  much  as 
possible,  daily  we  hunted  and  almost 
daily  saw  big  game.  Twice  had  Nim- 
rod  vindicated  the  hoodoo  horn  by 
calling  out  a  bull  moose  on  gallant 
errand  bent,  and  after  inspection 
each  had  been  allowed  to  retire, 
disappointed  and  suspicious,  saved 
by  a  too  modest  growth  of  armament. 

After  my  second  refusal  to  "  shoot 


3691 


anyway"  I  heard  Bert  sum  up  the 
situation  to  the  Cook.  He  seemed 
to  feel  it  necessary  to  explain,  for 
his  pride's  sake,  as  we  came  back 
so  often  empty  handed. 

"She  wants  a  gee  socker  or  none. 
No  picayune  headpiece  need  apply. 
Mr.  Nimrod  can  sure  call  'em  out 
with  that  fool  horn.  That  fellah 
to-day  was  easy.  Could  most  have 
clubbed  him." 

One  morning  the  Tevi  were  going 
on  a  still  hunt  for  deer  and  Nimrod 
preferred  to  accompany  them.  Bert 
and  I  were  off  at  daybreak  on  our 
quest.  We  reached  a  little  cran- 
berry bog  that  pushed  out  from  the 
usual  wooded  shore.  Wrapped  in 
a  white  mist  we  waited  and  listened 
for  something  afoot  on  the  game 
trail  that  was  near  by.  Slowly  the 
white  mist  became  thinner,  then 
rosy,  and  the  familiar  day-time  forms 
took  shape  in  shadowy  blurred  gar- 
ments, that  in  time  gently  glided 
from  them.  The  silence  too  awoke, 
performing  that  subtle  change  that 
marks  a  sleeper's  return  to  conscious- 
ness, though  there  be  no  motion  of 
the  body.  The  penetrating  early 


chill    departed    and    full    morning 
welcomed. 

Beaching  the  canoe  we  started 
through  the  dripping  bushes,  head 
high,  to  explore  this  new  region. 
Bert,  examining  the  plentiful  tracks, 
indicated — one  does  little  talking— 
that  a  big  moose  had  gone  along  a 
very  short  time  before,  was  probably 
in  the  neighbourhood.  With  great- 
est care  not  to  be  noisy  and  with 
the  quickened  nerves  and  breath 
that  always  comes  when  stalking, 
we  came  to  a  tiny  lake,  embedded 
in  the  forest  and  on  which  the 
shadows  still  lingered.  The  moose 
tracks  led  around  it  but  I  stopped 
to  get  breath.  The  excitement  of 
something  impending  seemed  to 
sadly  interfere  with  it.  I  felt  there 
was  moose  very  near. 

I  pointed  to  Bert  to  give  a  call 
with  the  hoodoo  horn.  He  was  not 
a  caller  and  shook  his  head.  A  per- 
emptory nod  from  me  brought  a, 
shrug  of  the  shoulder,  which  meant 
"very  well,  since  you  insist,  I  will 
try."  He  gave  two  low  grunts  that 
a  cow  sometimes  makes  when  a  bull 
is  near. 


ACROSS  THK  TINY  LAKE  LOOMED  A  MAGNIFICENT  ANIMAL 


373 


Bert  had  not  taken  the  horn  from 
his  lips  when  I  saw  his  body  stiffen 
with  attention,  and  the  next  instant 
I  heard  a  low  thudding  that  struck 
straight  to  my  heart.  It  could  mean 
but  one  thing,  a  heavy  animal  coming 
toward  us  on  a  run. 

Bert  handed  me  the  gun  quickly. 
An  angry  bull  moose  at  close  quarters 
is  not  the  safest  form  of  entertain- 
ment. The  thudding  stopped  sud- 
denly and  at  the  same  second  burst 
upon  me  a  beautiful  vision.  Across 
the  tiny  lake  and  above  the  low 
willows  loomed  a  magnificent  animal, 
head  carried  erect  proudly  he  bore 
two  broad  blades  of  conquest.  I 
even  seemed  to  see  the  blazing 
glances  that  shot  out  from  his  eyes. 
A  superb  creature  full  of  strength 
and  beauty  and  passion.  At  his 
feet  was  the  placid  water  doubling 
his  stature  in  its  mirror,  beyond 
were  the  solemn  masses  of  the  forest, 
and  now  the  sun  seized  that  moment 
to  surprise  this  secluded  spot  and 
struck  a  fitting  bar  of  gold  across 
the  monarch's  head.  One  foot  up- 
lifted he  paused  listening  for  another 
sound  to  guide  him  t  Dward  his  goal. 


He  had  expected  to  see  his  charmer 
at  the  lake  and  was  a  little  puzzled. 

"Shoot,  he'll  go,"  whispered  in 
my  ear. 

"Isn't  it  too  far?"  I  breathed. 
An  impatient  shake  of  the  head 
answered.  The  moose  had  turned 
and  stood  entirely  revealed  in  the 
sunlight.  He  threw  up  his  head 
perhaps  a  little  suspicious  at  the 
silence.  "Quick,  you'll  never  have 
another  chance  like  this!" 

"Are  you  sure  it  is  a  big  head, 
Bert?"  The  look  of  disgust  that 
draped  my  guide  from  head  to  foot 
caused  me  to  raise  the  gun.  But 
it  wobbled  in  every  direction.  I 
could  not  hold  it  up.  All  strength 
seemed  to  have  left.  Calling  pride 
to  the  rescue  I  managed  to  get  it 
into  position,  and,  even,  to  aim 
carefully  and  fire.  As  I  did  so  the 
great  creature  turned  on  his  back 
track  having  decided  that  it  was 
about  time  to  go.  He  stopped  as 
the  sound  of  the  explosion  and  then 
another  went  booming  toward  him. 
The  sounds  were  the  only  things 
that  did  reach  him,  as  the  bullets 
struck  far  short  in  the  water. 


"  Quick,  there  is  time  for  another,  " 
but  I  could  not,  and  the  bull  slowly 
disappeared. 

With  voice  still  shaking  with  ex- 
citement, I  exclaimed,  "Bert,  I  am 
glad  he  got  away! "  at  which  speech 
Bert  sat  limply  on  a  wet  hummock, 
apparently  deprived  of  all  ambition. 

"Glad  he  got  away."  He  re- 
peated half  to  himself.  "That  does 
beat  all.  I've  seen  'em  miss  often 
enough,  but  I  never  seen  one  glad 
of  it  afore." 

I  had  missed  my  "gee  socker" 
and  forfeited  the  admiration  of  the 
camp.  But  the  reward  was  great— 
a  picture  for  all  time  that  never  fails 
to  thrill  me  with  excitement  of  that 
wonderful  moment  when  Nature  al- 
lowed me  to  take  another  lesson 
from  her  primer  of  the  woods. 

It  afforded  Bert  some  consolation 
that  his  "party"  had  missed  the 
"dead  sure  thing,"  because  the  gun 
sights  had  been  knocked  out  in 
travelling:  But  I  knew  better.  My 
gun  may  have  been  sighted  for 
fifty  yards  and  the  distance  two 
hundred,  the  shots  may  have  been 
"dead  line,  all  right,  but  terrible 


short,  both  bullets  went  in  the  same 
hole  in  the  water''  and  so  on.  It 
was  not  for  me  to  materialise  that 
vision.  "  It  was  a  fine  head.  Finest 
head  as  I  ever  see,"  and  Bert  sighed 
as  he  savagely  rammed  the  cleaning 
rod  down  the  barrel  of  my  hapless 
gun. 

"The  idea  of  hunting  the  critter 
with  a  toy  like  that,"  was  the  Cook's 
comment,  looking  with  disfavour 
at  my  30-30  Winchester  carbine. 

"  Don't  blame  the  gun, "  I  pro- 
tested, cutting  short  these  camp 
excuses.  "  It  has  brought  down  big 
game  before  and  can  do  it  again,  if 
handled  right." 

11  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that!" 
was  Bobbie's  comment;  "misses  her 
chance  and  says  she's  glad  of  it. 
That  is  the  nerviest  tale  I  ever 
heard.  You  want  a  moose,  don't 
you?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"Ye-es — If  it  is  a  big  one."  I 
was  beginning  to  feel  the  burden  of 
my  failure,  popular  opinion  was 
against  me,  and  in  two  days  we  were 
leaving. 

"Then  come  with  me,"  said  the 
host.  "George  knows  of  a  splendid 


place  on  Daly's  Lake  where  a  big 
fellow  has  been  seen." 

"Very  well,  I  will  be  ready  in  an 
hour."  It  was  then  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon.  I  proceeded  to  ac- 
quire as  many  warm  things  as  pos- 
sible, including  a  fur  coat  and  a  hot 
water  bag,  as  sitting  in  a  canoe 
motionless  for  hours  while  it  gets 
colder  and  colder,  is  not  the  most 
comfortable  way  of  putting  in  time; 
and  leaving  all  detachable  sentiment 
with  Nimrod  for  safe  keeping,  I 
settled  myself  in  the  canoe  with  a 
11  now  or  never  and  you  know  you 
want  to"  attitude  of  mind  that 
boded  ill  for  any  moose  with  worthy 
antlers  that  was  unlucky  enough 
to  get  within  range. 

The  way  to  Daly's  Lake  took  us 
past  the  scene  of  the  morning's 
experience.  Before  reembarking  Bert 
had  made  a  little  fire  that  I  might 
thaw  out.  He  had  carefully  scat- 
tered the  brands  as  usual  when  we 
left;  although  there  seemed  small 
need  of  it  as  the  woods  were  soaked 
from  recent  rains  and  melting  snow. 

Now  to  my  infinite  chagrin,  we 
saw  that  some  treacherous  spark 


378 


had  managed  to  maintain  life,  had 
smouldered  for  hours  and  then  burst 
forth.  There  is  no  crime  so  black 
in  camp  life — short  of  murder — as 
"setting  the  woods  on  fire."  Bert 
had  taken  all  precaution,  but  how 
convince  the  host  of  that  when  the 
flames  were  crackling  merrily  and 
spreading  every  moment?  Fortun- 
ately the  mischief  had  but  just 
begun,  and  an  hour's  hard  work  was 
sufficient  to  extinguish  every  spark 
beyond  the  possibility  of  a  revival. 

This  disgrace  coupled  with  the 
disappointment  already  dealt  the 
camp  by  me  added  the  finishing 
touch  to  my  present  purpose. 

Henceforth  there  was  no  pity  and 
no  sentiment.  My  soul  was  no  longer 
open- to  the  beauty  of  the  evening. 
It  may  have  been  beautiful,  I  only 
remember  that  it  was  cold,  and  that 
I  sat  in  the  middle  of  the  canoe,  gun 
in  lap,  alert  for  a  chance  to  use  it, 
as  George  propelled  us  swiftly, 
silently  to  a  little  bay  in  Daly's  Lake 
that  was  half  choked  by  bog  and 
rank  marsh  grass. 

The  sun  had  set,  but  there  was 
plenty  of  half-light.  I  scanned  the 


sky,  not  to  see  the  twinkling  North- 
ern Lights,  nor  the  orange  and  violet 
aftermath,  but  to  calculate  how 
much  more  time  one  could  hope  to 
have  light  enough  to  shoot  by. 

Bobbie  took  up  the  hoodoo  horn 
he  had  borrowed  from  Nimrod,  and 
made  a  call.  I  remember  fearing 
that  it  was  hardly  a  good  enough 
imitation  to  summon  a  moose.  It 
might  be  more  efficacious  in  driving 
one  way,  and  I  desired  above  all 
else  that  a  moose  should  come  and 
be  killed. 

It  might  be  an  unfair  advantage 
for  human  intelligence  .  to  lure  the 
animal  thus  by  his  instinct,  but  it 
was  the  usual  method — away  with 
sentiment.  Had  I  not  left  it  behind 
at  the  camp? 

In  fifteen  minutes  Bobbie  gave 
another  call.  It  shrieked  and  bel- 
lowed over  the  swale  to  the  ridge 
beyond — and — was  answered.  This 
time  I  was  disturbed  by  no  quakes. 
[  gripped  the  gun — ready.  In  two 
minutes  we  heard  the  bugle  again 
much  closer.  We  could  even  hear 
the  crashing  of  branches.  A  bull 
was  coming,  careless  of  noise,  coming 


— coming  on  the  run.  It  was  an  in- 
describable moment.  That  creature 
coming — on — on  nearer — and  me 
waiting  to  kill  him,  if  I  could. 

Once  the  faint  noises  that  told  of 
his  progress,  stopped  And  we  won- 
dered anxiously  if  it  could  have  been 
a  bear  we  had  heard.  Or  perhaps 
the  bull  was  waiting  for  another 
call.  But  the  slashing  of  bushes  and 
breaking  of  sticks  began  again,  louder 
than  ever.  Then  we  heard  grunts! 
He  was  coming — closer  and  closer — 
awful  moments,  but  I  would  not  let 
myself  think.  I  simply  sat  there — 
grim,  tense,  ready,  until  he  should 
burst  into  the  open.  When  he  did, 
he  seemed  to  fill  the  whole  horizon. 
I  had  no  need  to  ask  about  the  great 
forest  on  his  head  which  he  tossed 
about  like  feathers,  as  up  and  down 
in  the  oozy,  log-choked  bog  he  on- 
ward strode.  Through  the  swale 
straight  toward  us  he  came  half- 
way, and  paused.  A  tighter  grip 
clutched  my  heart — now.  I  stood 
up  in  the  canoe,  George  and  Bobbie 
strained  to  hold  it  steady.  I  could 
see  him  better  thus  over  the  marsh 
grass.  Eighty  yards,  perhaps,  I 


thought.  The  deadly  muzzle  of  my 
gun  swung  into  focu&  on  the  great 
glistening  mud-splashed  shoulder — 
he  turned  his  head  from  us,  I  remem- 
ber being  glad  as  I  pulled  the  trigger, 
that  this  lessened  the  chance  of  a 
mis-shot  hitting  the  horns . 

A  most  unholy  joy  seized  me  when 
George  cried! 

"  He's  hit!    Give  him  another! " 

This  is  no  place  for  the  horrid 
details  which  I  insist  upon  forgetting. 
In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  it  was  over. 
I  was  soaked  in  mud  from  waist 
down,  having  repeatedly  slipped  into 
the  bog  in  my  efforts  to  get  to  him 
quickly  and  put  the  finishing  touch, 
so  that  he  would  not  suffer.  An 
overwhelming  sense  of  relief  rushed 
over  me — unsportsmanlike,  perhaps, 
but  blessed.  The  icy  grip  of  murder- 
ous intent  relaxed  and  I  felt  once 
more  human. 

The  last  of  the  half-light  had  gone 
now.  We  could  do  little  more  until 
morning,  except  to  protect  the  pre- 
cious head  from  prowling  four-foots 
and  birds  of  the  air.  George's  vest 
wrapped  around  the  great  square 
nose  was  sufficient  for  the  former,  as 


no  wolf,  coyote,  or  fox  would  go  near 
that  human  taint  on  the  vest,  and 
my  handkerchief  tied  on  the  highest 
horn  tip  would  serve  to  scare  away 
the  latter.  Even  the  fearless  Whiska 
Jan  would  hesitate  to  approach  any- 
thing so  peculiar. 

Thus  in  the  dark  we  left  what  an 
hour  before  had  been  one  of  the 
most  superb  animals  of  the  woods, 
enjoying  his  birthright  of  life  and 
power  and  beauty,  and  now — a  mag- 
nificent set  of  antlers,  the  finest  that 
had  been  taken  out  of  that  region 
in  years,  no  longer  his,  but  mine— 
and  a  thousand  pounds  of  carrion 
meat,  a  too  royal  banquet  for  the 
wolves.  Perhaps  the  scales  balanced : 
each  must  judge  for  himself. 

I  deferred  a  verdict  as  we  felt 
our  course  along  the  black  and  silent 
waterways  to  camp. 

Bobbie's  exultation  was  unalloyed 
and  infectious.  His  guest  had  up- 
held the  honour  of  the  camp — we 
had  come  there  for  moose;  there- 
fore moose  we  must  get — and  had 
provided  the  fitting  climax  to  the 
trip. 

Next  morning  when  Bert  saw  the 


head  he  appeared  to  be  mightily 
amused : 

"  So  you  got  him,  after  all!  " 

"Got  who?" 

"  Why  that  is  the  fellow  you  were 
glad  you  did  not  shoot  yesterday 
morning.  He  was  meant  for  you 
all  right.  I  told  you  he  was  a  wonder. 
There  ain't  two  heads  like  that  in 
these  parts.  I  noticed  that  right 
palm  and  split  ear  particular." 

My  emotions  at  this  information 
were  varied.  It  was  like  finding 
that  one  had  strangled  the  ghost  of 
one's  first  love.  The  previous  act 
of  mercy  was  nullified — engulfed  in 
the  present  deed. 

Also  with  the  morning  came  the 
Scientist  with  calipers  and  rule, 
note-book  and  pencil.  The  much 
interesting  information  "  my  moose  " 
furnished  for  the  advancement  of 
knowledge  has  no  place  in  this  record 
of  experience  and  emotion,  though 
it  helped  to  make  the  scales  balance. 

Nimrod  also  discovered,  by  her 
autograph  of  course,  that  a  lady 
moose  had  visited  this  fallen  mon- 
arch of  her  realm;  perhaps  in  the 
moonlight  had  called  gently,  had 


386" 


sniffed,  advanced  cautiously  and 
sniffed  again  in  surprise — had  snorted 
then,  with  fear,  and  wheeling  in  her 
path,  had  fled  from  the  prostrate 
form  that  never  more  would  answer 
to  her  summons. 

For  the  last  time  we  rose  at  dawn, 
as  we  had  done  so  many  times  before, 
breaking  ice  in  the  water  bucket  that 
stood  waiting  at  the  door,  when  a 
far  away  sound  held  us  listening.  One 
is  always  three-fourths  ears  in  the 
woods,  as  one  is  three-fourths  eyes 
on  the  plains. 

"  It  is  wolves  "  said  Nimrod  hurry- 
ing into  more  clothes.  They  are 
coming  this  way! 

The  broken  noises  were  getting 
louder  and  I  could  distinguish  several 
voices  in  the  chorus  of  yaps  and  howls. 

"It  is  their  hunting  cry"  Nimrod 
interpreted  excitedly.  "They  are 
chasing  something — a  deer,  surely, 
by  the  way  it  travels." 

The  din  was  now  like  a  whole 
menagerie  let  loose. 

"The  deer  is  hard  pressed.  The 
wolves  are  gaining  on  it.  Hear 
them  now!"  The  language  of  the 
wolves  was  no  mystery  to  Nimrod. 


3*7 


"WhyAer?"  I  asked. 

"  Probably  a  doe,  she  is  not  putting 
up  a  very  good  fight.  Listen,  I 
believe  she  is  leading  them  right  into 
camp! " 

If  she  did,  it  would  not  be  the  first 
time  we  had  known  a  wild  animal 
at  the  point  of  death  from  its  ene- 
mies, seek  protection  from  the  arch 
enemy,  man,  and  with  us  the  trust 
had  never  been  betrayed. 

The  incredible  racket  of  that  pack 
of  hunting  wolves  about  to  close  on 
its  quarry,  was  blood  curdling.  They 
were  not  a  hundred  yards  from  us, 
when,  like  the  shutting  of  a  door,  the 
hubbub  stopped.  The  wolves  had 
discovered  the  trick  and,  not  daring 
to  pursue  farther,  had  slunk  away, 
disappointed,  vanquished  for  that 
time. 

Having  accomplished  her  deliver- 
ance, the  deer  took  no  unnecessary 
chances  with  us,  but  sneaked  off  in 
another  direction. 

We  had  seen  nothing,  but  to  those 
who  had  ears  and  understanding,  the 
whole  drama  was  as  legible  as  a 
printed  book. 

With  this  diploma  from  our  "  little 


388 


brothers,"  to  testify  that  although 
we  often  slip  back  into  the  stone  age 
attitude,  we  do  have,  and  frequently 
use,  the  divine  attributes  of  justice 
and  mercy,  we  turned  our  feet  once 
again  toward  the  bricks  and  mortar, 
toward  the  frills  of  life,  desirable 
and  delicious,  taxing  and  enervating. 

On  an  Eastern  wall  hangs  a  beau- 
tiful moose  head  with  broad  pal- 
mated  antlers  and  gleaming  tips, 
that  like  the  magician's  carpet  is 
capable  of  transporting  us  at  any 
time  back  to  the  days  in  the  open, 
when  blood  ran  through  the  veins, 
quick  and  red,  when  we  worked, 
played,  idled  and  rested  with  a  vigour 
and  a  joy  that  never  comes  else- 
where. 

Perhaps  the  scales  weighed  even, 
after  all. 


PART  IV. 
IN  NORWAY 


XIX. 

THE    NEW    HUNTING   OF   REINDEER— 
WHEN      I     ATE     THE     CAKE     AND 
HAD    IT    TOO 

HROUGH  blood  one 
may  come  to  the  light. 
Nations  have  too  often 
shown  us  this  imper- 
fect way.  Although 
never  an  enthusiastic 
murderer  of  animals,  I,  as  already 
confessed,  had  not  been  proof  against 
the  temptation  to  secure  a  trophy 
"big  head";  yet  may  I  claim  the 
grace  of  moderation  in  the  face  of 
unusual  opportunity.  Out  of  nine 
hundred  and  eighty-three  deer 
counted  in  three  weeks  in  the  Flat- 


tops,  nearly  all  within  gunshot,  I 
had  taken  but  one.  Of  five  hundred 
elk  seen  in  the  Jackson's  Hole  dis- 
trict, one;  of  eighty-six  antelope  in 
the  Shoshones,  one;  of  eleven  bears 
in  the  Rockies,  one;  of  a  hundred 
coyotes,  none  (for  reasons).  How 
the  alleged  "fantail"  and  the  moose 
came  to  join  the  group,  has  been 
duly  set  forth. 

Always  but  an  incident,  not  the 
reason,  for  out-door  living,  to  quote 
an  ancient  saying,  I  had  "no  further 
stomach"  for  killing;  and  when  we 
started  for  Reindeer  land,  I  laid  my 
gun  at  the  feet  of  this  modern  Nim- 
rod,  indeed  "  a  mighty  hunter  before 
the  Lord"  and  became  a  devotee 
of  the  New  Hunting. 

Armed  with  camera  instead  of 
gun,  one  receives  in  equal  lavish 
measure  the  blessings  of  companion- 
ship with  woods  and  waters;  one  can 
steal  from  the  animal  his  every 
beauty  and  yet  leave  him  none  the 
poorer.  This  ideal  hunting  requires 
all  the  skill  of  the  old-fashioned 
gunner  and  much  ingenuity  besides, 
for  an  animal  can  be  shot  much 
farther  away  than  photographed. 


And  thus  equipped  we  hied  away  to 
Norway,  Nimrod  and  I,  the  hunter 
passion  keen  for  our  quarry,  the 
reindeer,  the  Norway  caribou.  To 
wrest  from  it,  if  possible,  not  its  life 
but  its  manner  of  life;  not  its  head 
with  its  bony  processes  without, 
but  proofs  of  the  mental  processes 
within. 

Norway  is  a  land  of  bare  rocks, 
bleak  wastes,  and  silent  waters.  Its 
charm  gains  slowly  but,  like  the 
people,  is  of  enduring  quality. 

The  uninviting  uplands  of  dwarf 
half-frozen  vegetation  seem  to  stretch 
on  to  the  world's  end,  and  yet  the 
houses  are  built  small-footed  and 
broad-shouldered,  as  though  land 
were  valuable,  and  of  wood  where 
wood  is  scarce  and  stone  is  aggres- 
sively abundant.  The  farm 
buildings,  their  thatched  roofs  well 
weighted  with  stones,  huddle  close 
to  form  a  bulwark  against  the  winter 
drifts,  and  often  an  extra  barrier 
against  the  Snow  King  is  carefully 
up- thrown.  The  saeter  that  shelters 
solitary  herdsmen  of  the  rensdyr, 
is  a  habitation  merely,  the  next 
remove  from  a  cave  dwelling,  and 


the   farmers'    houses   have   evolved 
but  little. 

Stern  as  their  hoifjeldene,  sturdy 
as  the  little  horses  they  rear,  are 
the  people,  fearless  as  t*  e  wolver- 
ine, and  inheriting  the  silent  depths 
of  their  gloomy  beautiful  fiords. 
They  laugh,  it  is  the  sunlight  on  the 
mountains,  yet  one  does  not  forget 
the  half-year  winter  night.  They 
save,  niggard  Nature  makes  provi- 
dent man.  Every  wisp  of  hay  is 
garnered  and  cured  as  one  would 
herbs,  on  a  frame.  The  crop  from 
a  grass  patch  no  bigger  than  a  city 
back  yard,  tucked  among  the  cliffs 
high  in  the  air,  is  sent  down  by 
means  of  a  hay-wire  to  the  little 
farm-house,  itself  clinging  to  the 
mountain  side  with  an  air  that  some- 
day it  may  forget  and  topple  into 
the  deep  waiting  fiord  beneath. 

Those  quiet  fiords!  the  little  cough- 
ing steamer  that  daily  bustles 
through,  bearing  its  human  freight 
from  the  outside  world,  like  a  bum- 
ble bee  before  a  brooding  storm, 
only  enhances  their  silence.  Be- 
tween the  fiords  and  stringing  them 
together,  gem  after  gem,  run  kilos 


395 


and  kilos  of  ribbon  roads.  Here  one 
takes  no  iron  horse,  but  an  open 
carriage  and  rough-coated  ponies; 
and  one  travels  at  pleasure,  the 
summer  is  always  light,  midnight 
or  noon  the  majestic  scenery  is 
unfolded  with  compelling  beauty. 

Thus  for  days  Nimrod  and  I 
travelled  and  came  to  Nystuen,  back 
of  which  on  the  uplands  we  were 
to  hunt  the  reindeer.  We  had 
carefully  transported  our  weapons, 
two  cameras,  and  saved  our  ammu- 
nition, so  that  we  had  several  dozen 
rounds  of  shots,  and  we  longed  to 
"bag  some  game."  But  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Nystuen  move  slowly  and 
entertain  an  Oriental  attitude  to- 
ward foreign  women. 

"  Yes,  there  were  reindeer  back 
on  the  hills,  several  thousand  of 
them.  Yes,  we  could  go  to  them. 
Yes,  Updal  had  come  back  only  the 
day  before  and  knew  where  they 
were,  but  better  not  go  to-day, 
perhaps  to-morrow.  Yes,  there  were 
ponies  to  ride,  but  better  wait." 

This  went  on  for  several  days 
which  Nimrod  put  in,  however, 
sketching  a  pulk-buk,  a  most  moth- 


396 


eaten  specimen  of  a  tame  reindeer, 
and  the  harness  and  pulk,  a  boat 
shaped  sled.  I  took  a  ride  in  this 
rensdyr  pulk  on  the  grass,  there 
being  no  convenient  snow-patch,  and 
found  it  strange,  uncomfortable  loco- 
motion. 

The  pulk  is  drawn  by  a  single 
thong;  the  reindeer  is  guided  by 
another  thong,  swung  in  the  direction 
one  desires  to  go.  There  is  nothing 
between  one's  low  crouching  self, 
and  some  clicking  free-flying  hoofs, 
but  training  and  inherent  courtesy. 
Stories  are  not  lacking,  indeed,  of 
angered  pulk-deer  turning  on  their 
drivers,  whose  safety  depended  upon 
the  agility  with  which  the  pulk  could 
be  capsized  with  the  driver  inside. 

Though  absolutely  wild,  the  rein- 
deer herds  back  of  Nystuen  are  kept 
track  of  by  a  herder  and  his  dog, 
usually  a  sharp-nosed  canine,  wolfish 
in  colour  and  attributes.  Together 
they  spend  solitary  weeks  in  the 
region  the  herds  favour,  rendering 
occasional  service  to  a  simla  (mother 
doe)  protecting  her  rens  kalv  from 
a  wolverine  or  a  venturesome  bear 
that  may  have  been  lured  so  high 


397' 


by  the  hope  of  a  dainty  meal.  Six 
weeks  the  herder  daily  endeavours 
to  locate  the  reindeer,  seeking  his 
shelter  in  one  of  the  many  saeters 
that  dot  the  hills;  then  he  is  relieved 
by  another  youth  equally  hardy  and 
knowing  not  fear.  Periodically  some 
lusty  deer  give  up  their  lives  that 
man  may  live  the  fatter,  the  meat 
being  used  as  beef  is  in  America. 
Delicious  we  found  it,  when  properly 
prepared. 

Indeed  the  reindeer  is  a  host  in 
himself  for  the  North  Country 
dwellers.  They  drive  him,  they 
hunt  him,  they  wear  him,  they  eat 
him  and  still  remains  the  bloom  of 
his  wild  inheritance  that  pervades 
the  spirit  of  the  people,  their  tra- 
ditions and  their  literature. 

The  Spanish  manana,  the  English 
to-morrow,  the  Norwegian — never 
mind — are  synonyms,  all  mean  post- 
pone the  evil.  There  was  obviously 
a  hitch;  at  the  end  of  a  week 
we  got  no  nearer  the  reindeer 
herds.  Something  was  preventing. 
I  determined  to  discover  what. 
Half  an  hour's  work  with  the 
interpreter,  consisting  principally 


of     silences,     divulged 
secret. 

Madam  was  to  accompany  her 
husband,  and  in  all  Nystuen,  a  hamlet 
of  three  houses,  there  was  not  a 
side-saddle! 

The  next  morning  two  buff- 
coloured  stocky  animals  with 
roached  manes  and  flowing  tails 
were  waiting  saddled  in  the  stable 
yard.  Madam  had  declared  she 
cared  not  what  the  animal  wore  so 
long  as  it  would  carry  her.  The 
statement  had  evidently  brought 
welcome  release  from  responsibility. 
Gravely,  Updal  the  guide,  who  was 
to  walk,  presented  a  hand  for  assis- 
tance in  mounting.  An  English 
jockey-pad  about  the  size  of  a  post- 
age stamp,  unfortunately  not  as  ad- 
hesive, was  perched  on  a  broad  flat 
back,  two  diminutive  stirrups  hung 
from  it  and  the  girth  was  a  piece  of 
hemp  rope.  A  snaffle-bit  was  held 
in  the  animal's  mouth  by  a  piece  of 
twine  and  sheer  equine  amiability. 
Without  comment  on  either  side,  I 
was  assisted  on  to  this  circus-backed 
steed  thus  panoplied  for  unpathed 
wastes  and  gathering  up  the  twine, 


300 ' 


of  different  sizes  knotted  together, 
that  did  duty  for  reins,  started  on 
the  long  march  back  into  the  snow- 
patched  hills,  hunting  in  its  own 
country,  the  swift-footed,  wary 
reindeer. 

At  first  we  passed  clumps  of  the 
tasselated  dwarf  willow,  and  the 
straggling  ground  Juniper  displaying 
its  cheery  red  beads;  'near  the  bogs 
grew  the  white  tufts  of  the  cotton- 
grass  and,  in  patches,  was  a  favourite 
reindeer  food,  rensblomst,  a  short- 
stemmed  white  flower  shaped  like 
an  overgrown  buttercup.  Then, 
as  one  ascended  came  only  an  occa- 
sional black  birch,  twisted  and  feeble 
as  a  rickety  child  with  the  struggle 
for  life  in  its  harsh  home.  One  of 
these  harboured  a  hardy  field-fare 
that  had  nested  and  brought 
her  brood  almost  to  the  flying  stage, 
when  our  coming  threw  her  into  a 
state  of  wild  excitement.  She  darted 
back  and  forth  over  our  heads  utter- 
ing a  harsh  cry  and  discharging  at 
us  several  volleys  from  her  natural 
weapon.  Doubtless  she  had  never 
before  seen  an  unwinged  biped  giant 
so  unpleasantly  near,  and  though 


altogether  uncalled  for,  her  coura- 
geous resistance  must  be  judged  from 
her  own  standard.  It  was  a  pretty 
exhibition  of  mother  defence,  while 
the  babies  in  the  birch  cheeped  and 
cheeped. 

They  were  the  last  of  the  breath- 
ing things;  such  a  dead  country!  Its 
talent  of  stones  and  moss  wrapped 
in  a  serviette  of  snow,  and  buried 
— preserved  but  unproductive.  On 
and  on  we  pushed  for  hours.  Little 
pools  of  melted  snow  rested  in  the 
hollows,  the  tiny  red  cups  of  bugle 
moss  on  stiff  grey  stems  nestled 
against  the  southern  rocky  surfaces, 
which,  somewhat  chilly  stoves,  catch 
and  hold  what  heat  there  is.  It  was 
approved  reindeer  country.  Every 
moment  we  scanned  the  distant 
slopes  for  some  moving  object  that 
could  mean  but  one  thing. 

The  morning  wore  away,  the  after- 
noon was  nearly  gone.  Of  course, 
there  was  no  dark  to  fear  as  the  night 
hours  approached,  but  there  were 
other  considerations,  such  as  food 
and  rest  and  a  glowing  fire,  those 
" chill  ancestral  spaces"  pall  in  time, 
especially  as  the  day  had  been  one 


long  acrobatic  endeavour  to  keep  the 
postage  stamp  on  top  of  my  charger. 
Once  he  sneezed  and  lost  his  bit,  so 
careless  of  him,  but  with  grave  con- 
cern the  string  was  readjusted  behind 
his  ears  by  the  string  man,  who 
was  never  far  away. 

Seven  o'clock  and  still  no  sign. 
Updal  on  a  boulder  had  been  looking 
long  toward  the  west;  suddenly 
he  slipped  down  the  east  side  and 
motioned  for  us  to  dismount  noise- 
lessly and  anchoring  the  horses  with 
stones,  led  an  elaborate  stalk  to  the 
crown  of  a  near  hill.  On  raising 
our  heads  over  it  cautiously,  a  great 
sweep  of  desolation  came  in  view. 
At  first  I  saw  nothing  different,  then, 
about  a  mile  off  a  brown  patch  like 
a  dried  leaf  on  a  sheet  began  to  move 
zig-zag  slowly  then  swiftly  in  a 
straight  line  and  disappeared.  It 
was  my  first  glimpse  of  reindeer. 
Over  a  thousand  were  in  the  herd, 
Updal  said,  as  we  hurried  forward. 
They  had  been  feeding  and  had  not 
become  visible  until  passing  over 
the  snow  surface  and  they  had  dis- 
appeared for  me  where  the  brown- 
grey  earth  swallowed  their  colour 


402 


again.  Fortunately,  unalarmed  they 
were  coming  diagonally  toward  us. 
I  saw  them  again  nearer  and  they 
looked  like  maggots  crawling  swiftly 
along. 

Another  hour  of  patient  progres- 
sion behind  sheltering  knolls  and 
boulders,  when  Updal  motioned  for 
still  greater  care  and  to  get  ready  to 
*  shoot.' 

The  silence  of  that  man-neglected 
place  was  broken  by  a  curious  low 
sound,  like  the  noises  of  stiff  paper 
being  crumpled,  or  of  a  Katydid 
chorus  muffled  to  pianissimo;  this 
sank  away  into  the  quiet,  then  began 
again  louder.  Updal  pulled  us 
still  closer  into  the  hollow  where 
we  were  hidden.  The  noises  stopped 
again.  Quickly  he  urged  us  between 
some  boulders  and  around  a  little 
knoll;  then  a  wonderful  vision  pre- 
sented itself,  a  great  herd  of  grey- 
brown  animals  with  snag-like  antlers, 
suggesting  a  flooded  forest,  were 
grouped  between  a  lakelet  and  some 
rock-walled  steeps,  a  family  party 
at  home  in  a  most  appropriate 
reindeer  drawing-room.  Quietly 
were  they  feeding,  some  drinking  at  a 


A  REINDEER  DRAWING  ROOM 


grey-eyed  pool,  a  simla  was  nursing 
her  kalv,  a  young  white  buk  was 
scratching  his  hardening  horn  with 
a  casual  hind  foot.  Two  nekker 
were  butting  each  other  in  youthful 
play.  We  were  admitted  to  the 
mysteries  of  their  wild  life.  So 
fascinated,  I  almost  forgot  the  hunt- 
er's duty,  but  quickly  fired  a  shot. 

The  herd  was  drifting  our  way 
and  the  wind  was  right,  so  we  waited. 
At  forty  yards  I  fired  again  and  got 
what  proved  a  fine  picture.  Still 
they  came.  Finally  when  one  huge 
buck  was  within  twelve  feet  I  snapped 
again.  The  click  of  the  camera 
—always  that  mischievous  click- 
betrayed  me,  the  buck  threw  up  his 
head,  gave  the  loud  alarm-snort. 
Every  head  went  up  and  snorted. 
The  herd  wheeled  about.  Whiff! 
the  paper  crackling  of  their  hoofs 
rippled  from  end  to  end  as  they 
swayed  to  the  right,  to  the  left  and 
were  gone.  They  did  not  seem  to 
walk  or  run,  they  simply  went,  with 
a  crash  of  little  clicks  that  the  hooves 
made  when  raised. 

They   were   gone;  but   they   had 
left  the  memory  of  their  presence 


and  the  u-nwarmed,  unflowered  coun- 
try was  desolate  no  longer.  I  had 
seen  the  life  it  cherishes  and  as  the 
spirit  of  an  owner  pervades  his  room 
though  absent,  this  vast  attic  of  the 
world  seemed  a  proper  setting  for 
those  mild-eyed  silver-coated  crea- 
tures, descended  from  the  North 
Wind. 

Carefully  we  carried  our  hunting 
trophies  back  to  Nystuen,  an  easy 
matter,  several  hundred  reindeer 
had  but  the  weight  of  a  sheet  of 
paper;  and  although  antiquities  are 
honourable,  one  time-worn  adage 
must  be  cast  off,  as  a  rensdyr  casts 
his  winter  coat,  for  we  had  managed 
to  "  eat  the  cake  and  have  it  too." 


14  DAY  USE 


RETURN 


ROWED 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


'  RfcgOTg 

OCT    7l9bL 

'  '       '''  t  '-j 

NT:         .KY  LOAh 

MAR  19  1973 

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57548  ' 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


